


A Hell of a Game

by Zab43



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Abusive/Manipulative Hastur, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale As Therapist, Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Whump (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Dom/sub, Drug Abuse, Emotional Healing, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Female Crowley (Good Omens), Forced Orgasm, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Hastur (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Manipulative Relationship, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Crowley (Good Omens), Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Imbalance, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Blaming Crowley, Sex, Sexual Abuse, Tell me if I’ve missed something, Therapy, Think I’ve tagged everything, Torture, Trauma, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:00:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 23
Words: 33,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28576392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zab43/pseuds/Zab43
Summary: Crowley's new boss is Hastur: a promotion from the pits, where Hell's torments are carried out. All the pit demons have reputations, but Hastur's is worse than most....In Hell all relationships are abusive and Hastur's dealings with his new underling are no exception.A story told through the medium of therapy and flashbacks. Full of angst(!), abuse, PTSD, panic attacks and a big slice of understanding from a real life angel.Set after the failed apocalypse, but the main events are told through Crowley’s memories of Hell and are set thousands of years before. The theme is surviving and recovering from an abusive relationship, so any historical background is just window dressing really.Chapters alternate between Aziraphale & Crowley and Crowley/Hastur scenes with other characters as background only.This is a total stand alone, but is set (pretty much) in the same imagining of the GO world as another of my stories: Twelve Years Ago. Hastur's character is intended to be the same, but this brings out his (much) nastier side. Some of my demon OCs make brief appearances too, but there aren't any interactions between the two stories.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Hastur (Good Omens), Crowley/Hastur (Good Omens), Hastur/Ligur (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 34





	1. After

**Author's Note:**

> Really advise reading the warnings/tags, there are a lot of unpleasant and potentially triggering things covered here. It's been quite cathartic for me to write.... but might not be everyone's cup of tea!
> 
> If you think I’ve missed a significant tag please let me know.
> 
> I'm happy for comments, including constructive criticism, but nothing nasty please. If you don't like it, don't read it.
> 
> Now I've put off any potential readers I'll begin!

After the failed Armageddon. After the trial and the failed executions. After dinner at the Ritz even. After all that, came peace.

The wayward angel and his traitorous demon boyfriend sat together in the bookshop, replete and mildly tipsy. They were finally free. It was over.

Something however, was nagging at Aziraphale. The demon could see it in his face. Could see the furtive glances and slightly furrowed brow. There was something on his mind.

“I give up. What is it?” he drawled, his voice slightly impaired by the effects of maybe just a little too much wine.

“Oh, I do beg your pardon” said the angel, looking embarrassed. He stopped at this and filled his glass with a look of utmost concentration - he didn’t want to spill a drop.

Realising that Aziraphale had stopped speaking, not just as a natural pause, but as a definite end to the flow of words, Crowley frowned in mock irritation. “Well - are you going to tell me? Oh do tell, I can’t stand secrets” his tone was light, the words humorously intended, but the angel frowned back.

“It’s a just something that confused me my dear. I didn’t know what to make of it, but I’m not sure now is the time…” he tailed off.

The demon was curious, but saw no reason to push it. "Sure angel, we’ve got all the time in the world… take as long as you want”.

They moved on to talk of other things and the evening unfolded like a parachute, billowing pleats of endless silk-soft time unfurling before them. Soon many months had passed and the demon had forgotten the angel’s words.

Aziraphale however, couldn’t forget. One morning he felt the time was right. Enough water had flowed under the bridge to smooth the sharp edges from the more painful memories. It was time.

He waited until Crowley had finished his morning coffee and watched him studiously pick apart a buttery croissant without eating more than a few shreds of the delicate pastry.

Then he cleared his throat. The demon looked up and they locked eyes, the golden and the blue contrasting like the sun in a summer sky.

“There’s something that happened. Happened before the trial but after, well after you were, I mean I was, I as you that is…” the sentence had got hopelessly confused. He took a breath and started again. Missing the preamble and jumping straight to the main part. “Hastur said something. It was the only time he looked at me, me as you that is. I… I didn’t understand. I wondered if…” He tailed off again.

Crowley reacted angrily “Hastur! Whatever he said it wouldn’t be good. Forget it. He’s evil through and through, shouldn’t let his threats or his insults bother you”. His face was slightly flushed and Aziraphale looked up at him, worried by this reaction. Maybe he should drop it.

After a moment’s reflection the demon relented. It was so obvious the other wanted to tell him whatever it was, needed to almost. He sighed “go on then, what did he say?”

Taking a deep breath Aziraphale prepared himself to repeat the words. He felt they were significant, but didn’t know why. He thought he knew his demon well, knew how he had interacted with his superiors, knew too how his superiors had viewed him. That was why the words were so unexpected.

“It was right after I arrived in Hell, locked in the cell, waiting for the guards to take me, take you that is, to the courtroom”.

When he stopped the demon huffed in irritation “spit it out - best I know the worst - what did he say?”

Another unnecessary deep breath later Aziraphale felt almost ready. Just a little more scene setting first maybe. “I don’t think they even knew he was there. He looked furtive, more furtive than usual that is. Like he might be caught doing something he shouldn’t be doing”.

Crowley was rapidly losing patience. “Tell me angel” he instructed.

“He said: I’m sorry, I can’t stop it this time poppet” he admitted.

There was a long silence. Crowley felt as if the floor had opened beneath him. Just one word, one name, one little prod and he was back in Hell. Back at the start of it all. He repeated in a dead, flat voice, devoid of all emotion “poppet?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t stop it this time poppet” confirmed his companion.

The demon frowned: ‘sorry’ how did that fit in? He could understand why Hastur would use that name, poke at a raw wound barely scarred over, but why would he be sorry? Why would he say he couldn’t stop it for that matter? He wasn’t meant to want to stop it. Assuming by ‘it’ he meant the trial, the execution.

When he felt an arm around his shoulders he realised he’d started crying. Nothing dramatic, not racked with sobs, nor shaken by grief, just tears welling and falling of their own volition. He couldn’t control them.

He shook off the arm and stood, deliberately stepping away from the familiarity of the touch. It was too much. He couldn’t breathe. There was a rushing in his ears. A cloud descending before his eyes. He couldn’t, just couldn’t.

He began pacing the bookshop. Fast sharp turns, up and down, round and round. Like he was trying to out-run something.

Aziraphale was too stunned to move. The violence with which the demon had repulsed him, had shocked him. Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything. He began to apologise, but was interrupted.

“No. No. I can’t. I can’t do this. Can’t talk about it. Not now. Not with you. I can’t” the last words were a wail and a plea.

In his pacing the demon had been careful to mostly keep his back to the angel. Now he turned to face him. The tears were still streaming down his face. They had changed to blood red and his eyes had darkened almost to black.

The angel sucked in a gasp of air. The demon was physically shaking, trembling as if he was freezing. The blood-tears dripped from his face. Aziraphale instinctively rose to comfort him, but the demon jumped back shouting ‘no’ again.

The pacing continued for a while. Then he’d sat, growling if the angel got within even a few feet of him. After maybe an hour he spoke. It was simply to repeat the words though, in a wondering way, as if they didn’t add up “I’m sorry, I can’t stop it this time poppet”.

After that he started drinking, not stopping until the last of the wine had gone. His companion had wisely left him to it. Realising that he needed to be alone to deal with whatever had been stirred up.

Aziraphale cursed himself for a fool. Why had he insisted on repeating what Hastur had said? Why hadn’t he listened to the demon - whatever Hastur said wouldn’t be good. Clearly the words had held more than an absence of goodness. 

Eventually the sounds of gentle snoring reached his ears. The demon was asleep. No doubt he’d have a pretty bad hangover when he awoke, but Aziraphale didn’t feel he had any sort of permission to help with that.

He left the bookshop instead and walked around the deserted streets of London. There was something soothing about the city at dawn. The newly washed streets reflected the mingled light of the weak, new day’s sun and the yellow of street lamps. It was empty and silent, apart from the occasional chirrup of birds welcoming the daylight. A perfect backdrop for introspection.

When he got back the demon was awake. He’d obviously removed the worst of the hangover and was drinking coffee, looking almost back to his normal self. There was just an edge to his movements, a barely noticeable restlessness.

He was doing his best to hide it, to lounge on the settee in a facsimile of his usual ease. The angel however, wasn’t fooled. He greeted him in a cautiously cheerful way. Going on to remark, in a light-heartedly, self-pitying manner, on the disappearance of the last of the Chateauneuf de Pape.

The demon had been startled. It had taken a few seconds before the words had sunk in. Then he had responded in a concentrated way, trying hard to sound light-hearted in return.

Several days passed like this and Aziraphale was starting to worry. He didn’t know what to do. It was obvious that something had been stirred up by Hastur’s words. Equally obvious that it was something the demon didn’t want to talk about. Hadn’t wanted to think about even.

Crowley had tried to carry on as before, paper over the cracks, let the ice re-freeze over the deep chasm that had just reopened beneath him. He couldn’t do this. Couldn’t taint his current life with the corroded, rotten memories of Hell.

Eventually he had gone out. He couldn’t stand the concerned looks the angel gave him. His feigned ignorance of the demon’s pain, his too transparent attempts to divert him onto old topics. Familiar indulgences.

Not sure of his destination he had walked aimlessly. Like Aziraphale before him. The streets of London in the early hours of the morning, the dead time, helped him think.


	2. Poppet (flashback)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first of the chapters marked ‘flashback’, which denotes they are Crowley’s recollections of what happened and how he felt when working down in Hell.

_Poppet._

_The word had certainly stirred memories. Like poking a stick in a stagnant pond. The stinking mud at the bottom of his very being had been disturbed and it would take time to settle again. He’d been too long in the light. He’d forgotten what the darkness felt like. What Hell was like._

_The feeling of being in Hell came back and hit him like a crowbar, with a sickening thud on the back of his neck. The very first thing he recalled was that nothing in Hell is ever good or pure. Everything carries a taint. Friendship doesn't exist. Attraction inevitably becomes sordid, sleazy and perverted. Relationships are always abusive._

_To hope for anything else is to waste your time. Worse really. Hope creates a weakness. You should never hope things get better. Deal with what's there and don't delude yourself with 'hope'. Take what you can, when you can, and never think about what might be. What might get better. Just be thankful for what hasn't been destroyed yet._

_If you have the energy, carve a niche where you can hide, so you won't be hurt too badly when it is destroyed. And it will be destroyed. Hell specialises in finding anything you care about, any mercy, anything that brings even a second of enjoyment, a moment without fear or pain. Hell will not rest until the last comfort has been rooted out, the one thing you’re clinging to has been uncovered like a blindly thrashing worm from under a rock. Hell will not rest until it is crushed._

_Crowley shook his head. That’s what his existence in Hell had been like. He wasn’t there now. He was in the light, out of the darkness forever. Things could only get better. Now, together with Aziraphale, on earth, away from Hell, now he could hope. That was Hell, this is now, he thought mirthlessly. It didn’t stop the memories._

_For the first time in centuries he allowed them to flood back. Maybe, by now, he could recreate the past like it was a story from another world. Not something that had really happened. A disconnected bubble of time outside of where he was now._

_…..._

_Hastur had been promoted up from the pits around five thousand years before Armageddon. Not that Armageddon was scheduled at that point. It was a distant promise, a bright light at the end of a tunnel of sickening, cloying darkness. No-one knew then that the light would turn out to be nothing more than a guttering candle, a false dawn. Not the end, just another chapter in a epic masterpiece of suffering._

_He shook his head again. That was Hell talking. The miasma of hopelessness seeped its damp chill deep into his bones. The tendrils of fear were tightly wrapped around his heart. He couldn’t quite let go, or rather, it wouldn’t quite let go of him._

_Poppet._

_One word and that existence was bought back to him. A time he thought he’d managed to forget. Bury the pain deep enough and it’ll never see the light of day. Keep your mind in the here and now, don’t give yourself time to think. Hide your feelings in a locked box, throw away the key and drown the box in a deep ocean of denial. If you don’t think about it then it didn’t happen._

_With that word the past had come back. Damn Hastur. He always knew how to twist the knife just the right way. The way that kept you awake, but in pain. The way that banished the welcoming arms of unconsciousness. The yearned for oblivion kept forever just beyond your grasp. And he’d keep you begging vainly for it to stop, for him to stop, forever too. Or at least that’s how it had seemed._

_‘Poppet’ made sense in that context. He knew it would hurt. Leave him breathless with the shadowy memories of the pain, the humiliation. He knew what the name did to him. Calling him that. One final cruelty before the end. What had he meant by ‘I’m sorry, I can’t stop it’ though?_

_He reordered his thoughts. He needed to start again. Hastur had been promoted about five thousand years prior. He had had a reputation. All the pit demons had reputations, but Hastur's was worse than most. He was feared even before he got his Dukedom._

_He was obviously assigned a staff. Crowley and his colleagues. Junior demons. The lower ranks. Those who fell reluctantly, accidentally some of them. The less committed to the cause._

_Hastur hadn’t got a room. That was noted immediately. All the Dukes had a room of their own. Except Hastur didn't. Crowley remembered they’d pondered this for some time. This was before Hastur had arrived officially of course. Wouldn't do to be caught 'pondering' with the boss around to see, to catch you, to punish you._

_What did it mean, a Duke without a room? Of course, knowing what he knew now, it made perfect sense. Hastur didn't need a room. Didn't want a room even. He had Ligur. They shared._

_It wasn't the main area of speculation though. Hastur had a reputation and, even by Hell's diabolical standards, it was a bad one. All the demons had heard things. Hastur had been involved in the early trials. Dealing with Hell's first rebellions. Ensuring there were no later rebellions._

_There had been confessions and executions in the end. Before then... before the mercy of death had taken them beyond all suffering, before even the bloody, scrawled confessions, had come Hastur and his ilk._

_Listening to the whispers in the darkness it was possible to just sketch out the outline of what had happened 'before'. The rumours had just enough detail to stimulate your imagination, but were vague enough to keep you guessing. The most anyone knew for sure was written in the scars of those questioned and released. The lucky ones._

_Lucky! The few who were still fit for work afterwards didn't talk about it. They certainly didn't look like they felt 'lucky’ though._

_The name ‘Hastur’ was occasionally whispered, with furtive glances and meaningful looks. Oh yes, he had certainly been involved. By the way old Ezra twitched when anyone had mentioned his name, Crowley knew he didn't want to know more beyond that. The new boss: Hastur, Duke of Hell. Hastur from the Pits._

_The pit demons were feared as a matter of course. Despised too. They had fallen harder than most, suffered more. Maybe in another world this would have garnered them pity. In Hell it just caused repulsion. They were ugly, twisted, scared and rotted creatures. They reminded the other demons of their collective punishment. The rebel angels dragged down to the level of crippled beasts. No-one wanted that reminder._

_The general feeling was they must have done something worse to fall that hard. Worse than just rebel against Her. Some hidden crime more heinous and more disgusting than even the demons could think of. Committed in secret and too shameful for even Satan himself to discuss._

_Either that or they had simply been too weak to save themselves from the jagged rocks and fiery lake. Failures even at Falling. Oh yes, they were despised._

_Just as he had despised the pit demons they, in turn, despised him and his colleagues. His ‘colleagues’ being the demons of the working floors that is. Fair's fair. One bad turn deserved another. Yes, they’d all despised the pit demons and the pit demons had despised them all right back._

_Those lucky enough to make it to the upper halls - dry floors, barely a whiff of sulphur and free to roam on earth - were, of course, hated by everyone. On the working floors they were sandwiched between the two, the vile monsters of the pits (monstrous both in appearance and character) below and the pristine freedom of the earth agents and Dark Council above._

_So, his new boss was a promotion from the pits. Not just any pit demon either, one he had heard of and associated with some of the worst bits of Hell's limited, but nonetheless horrific, history._


	3. Re-Bury The Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley attempts to put the memories back inside him by any means possible

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * This chapter is meant to cover a long period of time during which Crowley attempts to get back to ‘normal’ by various means. It is condensed into one chapter so I can move on to the ‘therapy’ part promised in the tags.
> 
> * Although the descriptions of the effects of drugs/illegal substances are meant to be realistic and aren’t all negative, they only reflect my experiences and won’t be the same for everyone… This is absolutely not an endorsement of drug abuse (or alcohol abuse for that matter) in any way
> 
> * Hastur’s words - as repeated by Aziraphale - were Crowley’s ‘trigger’ this time, but I hope it’s clear that this had happened to him before. The relapse absolutely isn’t Aziraphale’s fault for repeating the conversation - there is always something lurking in the shadows that might act as a trigger and it was bound to happen sooner or later….
> 
> * I’m going to post in pairs from now on - flashback followed by talking - there will be conversations approaching traditional ‘therapy’, there will also be reactions from both Aziraphale and Crowley as well as angst, panic attacks, emotional responses etc. etc.

Crowley shivered. The stories had been nothing to the reality. Did he really want to think about this? 

Did he have any choice?

Hell was back in his bones like a cancer. Insidiously worming its mutated horrors into the old wounds. Wounds he thought he’d healed over. Washed clean with the light of earth and the company of an angel. It turned out the rot was still in his core. He couldn’t remove it. Couldn’t cut it out no matter how deep he gouged the knife.

He realised he was still walking and stopped to look about. It was warm and sunny. Midday had passed and he was surrounded by greenery. How far had he walked? Looking around for clues he’d spotted a bus stop with the ‘TFL’ logo - he was still within Greater London at least then.

Giving a determined sigh he tried to bury the memories again. A bus miraculously turned up almost immediately and, for some unknown reason, went to Soho rather than Croydon.

Back at the bookshop the angel obviously knew something was wrong. He couldn’t hide the changes from his best friend.

He jumped at shadows, was startled by the slightest of noises. He sat with his back to the wall, warily watching the room. Never letting down his guard in case something got through.

The demon had stopped sleeping too. You didn't sleep in Hell, it made you vulnerable.

He tried to remind himself that he wasn't in Hell, but his concentration kept slipping. Every time he thought he'd escaped, the hundreds of years of memories dragged him back. He was swept off his feet by crashing waves of ghastly recollection. He was unable to resist the pull, caught in the undertow, thrashing and helpless, over and over.

That was why he'd resorted more and more to miracles. Something to blur the past, push the worst of it to a deep recess at the back of his mind. Smother the memory with infernal energy. Like flinging a brightly patterned throw over a messy table. Out of sight out of mind.

Not entirely out of mind, but out of the day-to-day bit of his mind, the parts he accessed regularly. File the past away in his very own archive storage and don't think about it ever again.

He'd done it before the failed Armageddon too. Every so often it all got too much and he'd miracle away the nightmares. Then he could sleep. Sleep refreshed him. He was better able to cope with things after sleep. Now, even with the miracles, sleep wouldn't come.

The spell worked apart from that. While it lasted. A literal miracle cure. He hadn't forgotten. Hell does not forget. And he wasn't forgiven - Hell wasn't big on forgiveness either. You can take the demon out of Hell, but you can't take Hell out of the demon. It was still there lurking in the background, waiting for a chance to ambush him.

With the revelation of Hastur's words it had found its chance.

At first he'd simply upped the amount of energy for each miracle. Increasing the dose like an addict with a tolerance. It worked for a while. A week, maybe a month, pain free, not remembering.

As time went on the doses got higher, more frequent, less effective. The demonic energy buzzed around him like confusing static. A half numbing blanket shrouded his senses. Some days he almost managed to function like normal. Other times he moved sluggishly, responded slowly, couldn't concentrate through the haze.

In his half sedated state he convinced himself it would be ok. He could ride it out. Bury the pain again. It would just take time. So long as the angel didn't find out. He worked so hard to appear normal; it was exhausting. He couldn't let it show. Couldn't deal with the questions.

At the same time he knew the miracle cure wasn't working. He needed more. He'd drunk to excess - the human method to forget pain. He'd tried drugs too, prescriptions for zopiclone, valium, lorazepam - benzos and booze, sinking his consciousness into a swampy morass of sedation. With the sharp, painful edges of reality rounded and dulled, he managed to sleep. Although the nightmares still woke him the soporific cushion of drugs lulled him back to oblivion and peace.

After a while these had stopped working too, so he'd tapped up some old contacts, tried the less legal types.

MDMA and Ecstasy flooded his vision with warm, pink contentment, flowing naturally into buzzing euphoria. He was able to relax for just a few precious hours. Trails followed the bright colours of car lights, street lights, he was completely in the light, at one with it, and it was beautiful.

The comedown was a bitch. Depression for a demon was dangerous. Their power projected. The darkness inside him was writ large in his surroundings. When he caused an unpredicted eclipse he knew it was time to stop.

LSD, acid tabs, the little paper tickets that promised him entry to another reality. An altered state of consciousness. It had worked too. The sharp edges of the world began to melt and pulse, stretching wide and short, then tall and thin. His body relaxed entirely. Muscles he didn't know he had, un-tensed. This was glorious.

He'd watched fascinated as his fingers thinned and thickened alternately before his eyes. His skin flashed technicolor. He wasn't sure if it was real - his demonic reptile scales and patterns coming to the fore - or if it was just hallucination. His hair fascinated him, glowing red curls dancing through his fingers like Medusa’s snakes. The texture of it was so intense he couldn't think about anything else.

It didn't last long enough. Twelve hours and the edges were wearing off. The world started to flatten, the sinuous uncoiling of reality began to wind back in on itself. Colours muted. Movement stopped. Textures were no longer magical and everything was still. Reality had only been suspended temporarily. The memories had simply waited, lurking in the dark, ready to grab him back when he returned.

He craved more. He chased the high. Another one, then another. Three, four, five. Mixtures of unregulated, multicoloured, and hopefully potent concoctions. The human equivalent of a miracled oblivion.

Microdots, mushrooms, cocaine and pills, clinical sounding things like 2CB or ketamine and others, always others. Natural and unnatural. Plant based or lab-born, he didn't really care. On and on he went, trying one then another, then a combination of all of them. Nothing worked for long enough, nothing was quite strong enough.

He couldn't see the angel when he was in those states. He'd realise something was up immediately. He tried so hard to hide it. He stayed away when he thought he needed to. If he realised he was too sarcastic or too short-tempered the panic descended. He was terrified he'd slip up.

Constantly watching his own behaviour, looking for faults, critiquing his words. Had he spoken too quickly or too slowly? Had he given something away? He walked the tightrope daily, using drugs and drink to try to balance his mood, stave off the worst of the pain. Work to keep his voice light-hearted. Laugh and smile, or tut and frown. Learn what reaction is expected of you and act it out as well as you can. Always hide your true feelings, your stunted emotions.

This went on and on for months. How long would it last? In Hell he’d played a role for centuries, learned to hate himself for it, but bury the hate enough to keep up the pretence. He used those skills again now. He’d get better with practise. The old tricks came back to him. Never give away what you’re thinking, act the part, be what they want you to be, not what you are.

Dig a hole inside your mind and hide the feelings in it. Could he ever dig deep enough to stop this rotting corpse of memory clawing its way out?


	4. The Start Of It (flashback)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hastur Arrives to take over his new office and his staff learn some things about him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *All of the events in Hell are written from Crowley’s POV and represents his experiences, understanding and recollections. There are going to be ambiguities, possibly even contradictions, in his story and - just like in the real world - there are no definitively ‘right’ answers.
> 
> *Note on ‘hour-candles’ - these are my own invention. They marked the passing of time in Hell before clocks were invented. The first was from midnight to 8am, second 8am to 4pm, third 4pm to midnight. Demons work round a traditional human office schedule although exact start/finish times aren’t really discussed.
> 
> *There is mention of torture techniques and the consequences of them, but no actual torture in this chapter.
> 
> *This is the last of the ‘scene setting’ flashback chapters - the next one starts into the story proper.

_Hastur had arrived the next day. Not that day or night meant much in Hell. The darkness was uniform. The passing of time only evident by the need to replace the stinking, tallow hour-candles at regular eight hour intervals. This was before electricity of course._

_The assembled staff had waited nervously. They knew the work. Had been doing it for nigh on a thousand years. If nothing changed too much they could cope with that._

_The brief period of freedom at the destruction of their old boss was over. The decaying head displayed outside their door was the last reminder of her presence. No-one had mourned her passing. Not that she had been worse than any other. All bosses in Hell were equally bad. But with Hastur’s arrival he found that some were more equal than others._

_The first days had gone as usual. The work continued, always too much to do in too little time. Always something to go wrong, some trap to fall into, unexpected process changes, forms altered, time-frames tightened. Always something to fail at, something to be blamed for._

_Rumour was that Hell had a designated quota of failing demons. It didn’t matter how hard you worked, how much effort you put in, how perfect your results, sooner or later they’d find a way to fail you. Failure wasn’t tolerated. Failure earned you a trip to the pits. Teach you not to fail again. Beat it into you. Literally at times._

_Disciplinary action was very strictly prescribed - each ‘offence’ carried its own punishment. Don’t go over the lines, use the wrong colour ink, bow too deeply or to shallowly, never miss a deadline. The whip and the rack awaited those who got it wrong - the worse the transgression, the worse the consequences._

_Within the structure was a certain warped fairness. You were set up to fail, but at least you knew what that failure would bring. An hour or two, maybe even a day, a week, but you’d be back. Bruised and battered certainly, maybe slightly broken too, but you’d be back in one piece and the wounds would heal. If you had the energy for a miracle cure all the better. Otherwise just hope you have time to heal naturally before your next turn came, before you were damaged again._

_The pit demons were the administrators of this merry-go-round of suffering. They knew their jobs. They didn’t overstep. A minute too long and the demon administering the torment would join you on the whipping post. Choose the wrong implement and they might lose a finger, or an eye, or a limb. Fear kept them all in line._

_With Hastur things were different. To begin with his ‘disciplinaries’ were conducted personally. He didn’t hand anyone over to the pit demons. He took them down there himself. He was skilled too. More skilled than many of the pit demons. Hastur from the pits. He knew his work. He understood pain._

_Secondly he didn’t seem to mind overstepping. Only by a little bit. Just enough to come as a nasty surprise. An added extra, a little bonus, just when you thought it was over. One more lash. One last cut. A final nail in the coffin as it were, under the fingernail more like._

_He must have suffered for these transgressions himself. He certainly looked beat up enough to have spent a lifetime in the pits. Not a lifetime: over a thousand years, his fellows had reminded themselves. More than a dozen lifetimes in human terms._

_Oh yes, Hastur had understood pain, but he hadn’t seemed afraid of it. They heard the rumours: he’d experienced the torments he inflicted on others first hand. Screamed in agony and begged for release, but it hadn’t broken him. Instead he’d learned. Honed his skills. He knew the tricks to make it worse, make it last longer and hurt more. They’d been done on him. He was attracted to pain, drawn like a suicidal moth to an open flame. It would burn him, but he’d keep coming back._

_He had been really burned too. The scars from his Fall were hideously fascinating. Smoothed and twisted skin ranged in colour from white to deep purple and red. He kept them hidden under baggy clothes, high necked robes with long sleeves, but Crowley knew what they looked like by the end._

_The final thing that made him different, made him stand out, was the healing. There wasn’t any. Not really. There was something in what he did, the tools he used, the angles he contorted you into, the curses he muttered over you, that defied miracle healing. Palliative care was all you got and that was a rarity. The other demons were too concerned for their own skins to help you patch your own. Hastur left scars._

_Crowley had known his turn would come. All demons failed eventually. He was good. Very good. Efficient and competent and, most importantly, inconspicuous. It didn’t do to look too good at your job, that only led to trouble. Let someone steal the credit here and there, make a minor error, nothing too serious, maybe a whipping but no more severe punishments. No scars._

_He lived in fear of scars. The pit demons’ deformities were from their Fall, but the damage they inflicted could replicate that mutilation. He saw his colleagues come back from their sessions with Hastur, watched anxiously to see if they would heal undamaged, waiting for his turn. What punishments did his boss prefer? He could take a beating, bruises faded. The whip was bearable, so long as it didn’t cut too deep. But burning, slicing or crushing injuries caused malformation, disfigurement and scars. He couldn’t cope with those. He needed to retain his looks._

_With those looks Crowley could make it as an earth agent. That, with those looks, came a high level of competence, should certainly have secured him the job already. He’d been up before too, up to Eden that was. Before the humans were banished. He was why they were banished in fact. He should have been granted the nearest to freedom Hell allowed: a permanent earth posting._

_Things hadn’t quite worked out like that. He wasn’t entirely sure what had gone wrong, but his time on earth was strictly limited, intermingled with a desk job in Hell. He wasn’t free yet. To get away he needed to remain pristine, unspoiled by torments._

_He worked so hard to stay within the rules, meet his targets, not stand out. He didn’t hope. Didn’t dare to. But he held the thought close to his chest that, if only he kept a low profile, escaped with just minor injuries, things that healed, no permanent disfigurement, maybe then he could get out._

_When the promotion finally came he wasn’t entirely sure what had gone right. He had been expecting something terrible after what he’d done. He just remembered going into Hastur’s office, trembling with fear, waiting for the worst to happen. Instead of punishment or retribution he’d wordlessly been handed his new assignment. His permanent posting. His freedom._

_Hastur hadn’t even looked at him. Hadn’t called him by name, simply beckoned him in and handed him the file. After he took it he’d turned, and, as he went to walk back out through the door leading to freedom, then, and only then, had Hastur spoken. Just to say ‘goodbye’ though. That was it - his only comment. Well not quite. What he’d said was ‘goodbye poppet’._

_Poppet. That had been the end of it and also the start. His mind was once again cast back to the beginning. Stuck in a never-ending loop of recollection. Unable to escape. He’d built nebulas in Heaven, now he felt like he was being sucked into a black-hole. Black-holes pull everything in, even light. Hell’s blackness swallowed up not only light but dignity and sanity and hope until there was nothing left._

_Poppet: the beginning and the end in one word. A word that would forever drag him back to Hell. Back to Hastur._


	5. Deciding to Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley admits his attempts to bury the past aren’t working and the angel suggests an alternative

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Not an ‘intervention’ as Crowley realises he has problems. It’s more an invitation from Aziraphale, an offer of help not an insistence on it.

Crowley shivered again. Did he really want to think about this? Could he do it without it tearing himself apart? Wasn’t it better to try and forget again? Lock it in a box, bury it below the sea, in the deepest trench, far under the seabed, where no-one would ever find it. He could do that couldn’t he? He just had to try harder.

He was sitting in the bookshop and realised that Aziraphale had said something and was waiting for a reply. He panicked, he had no idea what had just been said.

The angel clearly saw his distress “my dear, dear boy. Can’t you talk about it? I’m here to listen. I'll listen to anything you want to say. I know you need help. Let me help you - please”.

He sobbed at that. He couldn’t tell the angel his dirty secrets, his shameful, awful past. What would he think of him? The things he’d done, allowed to be done to him and how he had responded too - he couldn’t tell the angel.

“It’s alright you know. I realise Hell must have been…. you can’t have had a good time of it. Whatever they did it's over now. Talking it through can help you know? Turn it into a story about someone else. Once you’ve told the tale maybe you can move on”.

“You don’t know what I did angel” he answered darkly. It was true too he thought. In the angel’s wildest imaginings he couldn’t possibly understand what Hell was like, what Crowley had gone through. He wasn’t the only demon to have suffered, but his suffering had turned into something personal. He was special. Different from the others. Worse.

“Whatever it was Crowley, my dear, I know you would only do what you had to do to survive. Whatever that was, I want you to understand: I’ll always be here for you. It doesn’t matter what happened in the past. You’re here now. We’re here now. You’re safe and you can talk if you want to… and I think you need to. You know that don’t you?”

Crowley had nodded miserably. Burying the memories hadn’t worked this time. He had to admit that. Maybe the angel had a point - if he could let the words out perhaps that would let the pain out too. Like the blood-letting of old, put the leeches on and let them suck out the poison. It might work. He still wasn’t sure.

“I’ll think about it. I need to think”. Aziraphale had nodded, like he understood. With that permission, Crowley had left the bookshop. Set off somewhere to think. He needed a space where his brain wasn’t being assaulted by the past, where he could consider the present uninterrupted.

He ended up walking again. He felt unable to articulate yet, not willing to share the worst details even now. He wanted to though. If only the angel would understand, give some reassurance, help him mend, forgive him. It felt a remote possibility, but if it worked...

His thoughts continued even as his feet carried him out of the city. He didn’t know where he was, or where he was going. He just needed to move. If he stayed still the memories might overwhelm him. His physical body was trying to outrun his thoughts. It wouldn’t work, they’d always catch him in the end. He carried on walking nonetheless.

Out he went, north through the city, up to Camden and on to Hampstead Heath. From the top of Parliament Hill he looked out on unlimited miles of possibility stretching before him. If he walked far enough maybe he could escape himself. He realised it was futile, he needed mental escape not physical, he had to free his mind.

He headed back down into London proper, back home. He was so immersed in the past that he found his feet had taken him to the main entrance - the gates to Hell. The revolving doors to Hell anyway. Like waking from a dream he stared at the escalator still moving ever downwards and realised he hadn’t got to take it. He was not Hell’s property any more. He was free.

At least that’s what he had tried to think. Deep inside him the brand of Hell’s ownership burned in the space where his soul should have been. Try as he might he couldn’t shift the mental shackles, even now the physical ones had been removed.

He was forever tainted, stained by Hell’s corruption. He could never be pure, never be clean or free. He was corrupted, base and vile. Could never be forgiven. He was a demon. Crowley shook his head and turned. Hell was behind him now, literally and figuratively. Perhaps with the angel’s offer came a chance of real release from its clutches.

He went back to the shop, and tried to ignore the way the angel looked at him. Pity mingled with curiosity. He had made the decision though. He would tell him. After all these months of excesses and overdoses he realised this was his only hope. The word ‘hope’ spurred him on. Yes, he could allow himself to hope now.

“I think you’re right angel” was his opening line. After that he bottled it somewhat and just stood in silence. Somehow he hoped his companion could take over from here, tease the story out of him without him having to think about it.

“So long as you’re sure dear, but you’ve got to think about this properly. I know you want to talk, after everything you’ve been putting yourself through I don’t see what else is left, but you’ve got to think about how to begin. What you want to tell me. Where to start”.

He laughed at that. As if he needed to decide where to start, what to tell. Hastur. It was always about Hastur. He didn’t say that though.

He sighed instead, then glared defiantly, flung himself at the sofa and waved a hand airily. “Oh y’know, Hell was, well, Hellish, so much to talk about. What are you interested in? The torments, the work, the terrible conditions, the leaks, the bullying and paranoia and pain? So much to tell you, are you sure you want to hear it?”

“It won’t work unless you’re honest with me”. Aziraphale saw Crowley was about to protest so he lifted his hands and hurried on. “I’m not saying that all those terrible things didn’t happen, but this is about something more personal isn’t it? It’s not just Hell, if you can ever say ‘just’ about Hell, it’s something more than the general conditions that all demons suffered”.

Crowley thought about protesting, thought about arguing that the ‘general conditions’, as the angel referred to them, were bad enough for a whole millennium of nightmares. There was nothing ordinary about Hell. However, he knew he was right. He nodded instead.

“You won’t like it, but yeah, there is something. I don’t want to tell you, but I feel like I’ve got to tell someone, get some perspective. If I tell you then maybe I can put it in the past, where it belongs, like a story that’s over and done with”. He didn’t mention his secret hope, his inner most desire - to be forgiven. Maybe Aziraphale could forgive him.

The angel smiled reassuringly, but then said “I can’t wave a magic wand like a real life magician and make it all go away. Talking isn't a cure by itself. You have to engage with it, be open, allow yourself to talk about things that maybe you would rather forget. It can be a painful process”.

“Are you trying to put me off?” the ghost of his old manner crept back in, slightly impatient, a hint of sarcasm.

The angel ignored it and suggested that, if he was determined, they decide how best to proceed. Apparently it was important that he was comfortable, felt safe, the conditions had to be his own.

Between them they worked out a plan. Crowley would talk in his own way. He needed a dim light and a chair facing a fire. He couldn’t possibly speak if he could see Aziraphale looking at him, and he needed warmth. He wanted wine too.

At the sight of his angel’s disapproval he shrugged “alcohol makes talking easier - you know that - I can talk for hours when I’m drunk!” He managed a hint of a self-deprecating, humorous tone. The angel remained serious.

“You have been drinking a lot lately you know. I have noticed. That and other things”.

Crowley frowned, had he been so transparent? Surely he’d managed to keep his use of illegal substances secret at least?

The angel relented “it’s alright, drink if you need to, just not too much. Don’t get.. um what’s the phrase? ‘Poop-faced’”.

That made him laugh in earnest “it’s ‘shit-faced’ angel! Ha! ‘poop-faced’. Only you, only you would say something as daft as that”. Suddenly he wasn’t sure if the angel had done it deliberately. Trying to lighten the mood, lull him into a false sense of security.

He reminded himself that it wasn’t a ‘false sense’. He really did have security now. He didn’t have to look for ulterior motives. The angel wasn’t trying to trick him. He could enjoy a joke and know there was nothing behind it. He smiled again and noted that Aziraphale relaxed at this.

The only thing the angel insisted on was that he pick a ‘safe-word’. He had no idea how his angel was even aware of such a thing. The demon looked at his friend strangely, wondering what was behind this. Why would he need a safe-word?

When he asked, Aziraphale had chuckled “I’ve helped others you know. I am an angel after all. Sometimes it'll get too much, or you'll need a break. Using a safe-word makes it easier to break off when you need to. You don’t have to explain, just say it and we’ll stop straight away. Wait until you feel calmer before we move on”. It made sense he guessed.

He picked ‘ducks’, which had made the angel laugh. Aziraphale had then looked serious “I’m not really a therapist, not qualified that is. I have done this before though - I’ll be listening mostly, but I might want to ask questions too. Will that be alright?”

The demon had smiled at him “I don’t think I’d find a human therapist I could talk to about Hell angel! Ask questions if you want - I don’t have to answer do I?” It was half statement, half question. The angel had smiled again and reminded him of the ‘safe-word’.

He nursed his wine for a while, staring into the fire, trying to build up the courage to speak. The angel was patient, not pushing him. They sat in silence for nearly an hour before he felt ready to begin. Not sure how to start he wandered vaguely over the background, the mundanities of Hell’s everyday office life.

He was interrupted mid-muse on what lay behind the frequent changes to form 115b. “I think I understand the bureaucratic bit dear, maybe it’s time to move the story on”.

Yes, he’d been stalling. He knew what was at the heart of the story and he’d deliberately avoided it. He could have continued to obfuscate. There were enough horror stories about Hell to keep him busy for days, months even. He didn’t have to narrow it down to this one series of events, but talking generally wouldn’t help. He had to uncover the squirming guilt and humiliation at the centre of things. He had to talk about Hastur.

He started the story with Hastur’s promotion from the pits and moved on from there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I am not a trained therapist and so neither is Aziraphale, because I couldn’t write that properly. When applicable it’s meant to be as near aligned to ‘real’ psychotherapy as I can get, but isn’t professionally vetted in any way - i.e. I’m not suggesting this is the right way to go about things in the real world.
> 
> *The ‘he started the story…’ line is meant to denote that the background of the first two ‘flashback’ chapters have been conveyed to Aziraphale without the need for repetition.


	6. Treason (flashback)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley’s first trip to the pits with his new boss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This chapter isn’t explicit, but does set the scene and introduce Hastur in a more personal way with plenty of indication of the way things are likely to go. It’s meant to be a little sinister.

_When Crowley was called into Hastur’s office, he knew he was in trouble big. This wasn’t a small thing, couldn’t be, not by the way the others looked at him. The pity and relief mixing in their faces told him everything he needed to know. They were glad it wasn’t them, sorry for him of course, but mostly glad it wasn’t them, not this time._

_His insides were knotted tightly, his head a buzz of confusion. What had they got him for?_

_Hastur looked him up and down and sighed. In retrospect it felt like an unhappy sigh. Crowley had assumed at the time that he would gloat. He waited for the snide look of satisfaction, of barely suppressed glee on his superior’s face. It hadn’t come. Instead he said “I didn’t want to see you here, not on a charge like this. You know that, right?”_

_Crowley looked up at that, looked right into those dead, black eyes. He was too frightened, or perhaps too surprised, to speak. He nodded though. It didn’t do to ignore a question. They might think you’re not showing enough deference, not giving them enough attention. Never ignore your boss in Hell._

_The taller demon sat down and pulled a folder out. “You know what this is about of course”._

_It wasn’t a question, but Crowley was scared and confused so he took it as one. “No, your disgrace” he answered. His boss looked up, apparently surprised that his underling had spoken._

_Gazing into those fathomless eyes again, he realised his mistake. Something must have given away his terror as the other demon chuckled. “You will do, I promise you that. Torments are always deserved in Hell. That’s what we’re here for. Make it fair. Make it right. You understand that? It’s for your own good, poppet”._

_Something twisted inside his guts as he remembered the other’s smile at those words. 'For your own good, poppet’. The first time he’d used that name. The first of many times._

_He was given a requisition order to fill out and told to go down to the pits. That was another difference with Hastur. He might carry out the punishment himself, but he expected you to do the admin. An additional twist of the knife. You must willingly fill out the request for your own worst nightmares to become reality. Ask for it yourself._

_Down in the pits it was warm and dark. The grinding noise of machinery and half muffled screams intermingled with the scratches of quill on parchment. Before typewriters. Before computers._

_He checked himself in and waited for his tormentor to arrive. It had been a long wait. That was a familiar trick and he tried not to let it bother him. There were no hour-candles in the cells. He had no concept of how long he’d been there._

_The door opened. Obviously it was going to be Hastur. Who else? His boss was dressed a little differently. Instead of black he was in an off-white robe, stained sleeves already speckled with blood. Was it white simply to better show off the blood, scare him more? As if that was necessary! He also had a dark apron tied around his waist, the handle of a whip just showing from the pocket._

_At first Crowley had been relieved. A whip. He could handle that. He didn’t know what it would be: half a dozen, a dozen, two dozen lashes? More than that and he’d likely pass out._

_This was before they’d hexed the pits against unconsciousness. The hexes they'd devised later. They forced you to endure past the point of oblivion, the powerful incantations pulling you back from the tantalising darkness. At this point though, keeping your victim awake was a skill._

_Hastur had seen his glance and flung the whip to one corner of the room with a wicked smile. Unexpectedly his first words were an apology “sorry to keep you, some of your co-conspirators have been a little…. difficult”._

_‘Co-conspirators’? That didn’t bode well. He hadn’t - so far as he knew - conspired with anyone to do anything. Not that that mattered. Not in Hell. The term though implied something very serious, maybe even political._

_His mind flitted back to the rumours of the trials, Hell’s first rebels. He’d been told they’d stood in the dock before the executions, but having seen the feet of the corpses hanging on their gibbets afterwards, he doubted that would have been possible._

_His fear must have been writ large. The other demon seemed to savour it, breathing in deeply and walking round behind his victim. As Crowley started to turn he was instructed “don’t move unless I tell you. I won’t be patient for long”. At those words, he froze in position._

_Behind him Hastur sighed “oh my poor, pretty poppet, do you even know what you’ve been accused of?”_

_Crowley whimpered. He didn’t know if he should speak or not. He had no terms of reference for this. Usually the pit demons were business-like, some almost seemed bored at the routine of torments. It wasn’t like this. Now his fear tasted bitter in his mouth. He trembled and his muscles were held so tensely he wavered like a willow sapling in a gale._

_Behind him he felt the other’s breath. He was leaning over him, looking into his face. The heavy scent of the pits clung to his tormentor._

_Crowley didn’t dare move or speak. A arm reached round to hold a charge-sheet in front of his face. His shivering was too intense for him to read it in full, but he made out the word ‘treason’._

_Unable to stop the sound escaping he half screamed and half shouted. It was incoherent. No words formed. Treason meant death, but before death it meant…. he thought again about old Ezra and the mutilated corpses of those found guilty. The world began to spin around him._

_When he came to, he found he was seated. The surface was hard and cold. He did a quick mental check and couldn’t feel any pain. He remembered what this was about and very nearly passed out again._

_“Ah, here you are. Back from your little snooze are you poppet?” the voice was deep and gravelly, a half-mocking tone. It held an indulgent amusement that he hadn’t expected. “Eyes open, up you get”. He was pulled to his feet and did as he was instructed._

_Hastur’s dark eyes were before him again. It was all he could do to avoid another whimper and perhaps a faint. He was held up with a hand under his armpit, a firm, painful grip._

_“Now let’s see, where were we?” even to Crowley’s terrified mind the question was obviously rhetorical, so he didn’t answer. Felt confident not answering. Then the charge-sheet was held in front of his face again and he was instructed “read it out”._

_This time he read. The sheer relief at having something to do, something to focus on that wasn’t the immediate future, steadied his voice. Although he read the words, they didn’t make sense. He hadn’t even heard of half the demons' names. The planned assassination was apparently of a Dark Council member. He hadn’t heard of her either._

_There was no getting out of this. He’d been named by one of the others, under torment of course, but that didn’t matter in Hell. The accusation was attached to the charge-sheet. It’s shaky signature hinted at hands barely able to hold a quill steady to sign. He didn’t want to think about that._

_Apparently he’d introduced the demon to the leaders of the plot, helped set up a meeting, spoken even. There were more names he didn’t know. Dates he couldn’t remember. Times he instinctively knew he wouldn’t be able to account for._

_Hastur hummed approvingly as he finished reading. “Well done poppet, that wasn’t too bad, now was it?” Crowley sobbed at that. The words were spoken so quietly, kindly even - as if this was the worst, as if it was over now. He knew it wasn’t._

_“Shush, hush now, shush” Hastur’s rough hand stoked down his face, brushing away the tears. “Think carefully now, times and dates, where were you?”_

_Crowley had no idea. He looked at the dates mutely and the numbers swam before his eyes. There was a Monday in there, he was sure of that. What had he done on Monday? He gibbered incoherently for a while, his teeth chattering and cutting off the words before they had a chance to escape._

_Again Hastur was close, stoking down his face while he hummed reassuring nothings into his ear. His other hand found its way to his hip and he was held in a half embrace. Shivering, crying, barely able to stand. He was utterly powerless, utterly hopeless. So this is how it would end. He thought about the garden, the apple, the sunshine and the angel. Things he’d never see again._

_“Now then poppet, pull yourself together” the voice was stern, there was no pretence at comfort in it now. A snap of his fingers and Hastur conjured up a table. It had straps. Crowley whimpered again. A second snap and a tray appeared. It had shiny things on it; sharp shiny things. He tried to look away, but his face was grabbed roughly and turned back to look at the tray._

_“Showing the prisoner the implements poppet. Just following procedure. Gotta do it properly now, haven’t we?” explained the patient, kindly voice. “Clothes: off” this time the instruction was not in any way soft or kind._

_Crowley knew better than to stall. An instruction like that had to be obeyed immediately or there would be consequences. The pit demons were intolerant of delay, they had quotas, targets to meet. It was in your best interests to do as you were told without complaint._

_He threw his robe and scant undergarments to one corner of the cell without looking at his captor. He hadn’t stopped shivering, but now it was from cold as well as fear._

_“That’s a good poppet” the voice sounded pleased. He heard another snap and let out a half scream, hearing the chuckle this elicited from the other. The room got warmer. His tormentor had turned the heat up. The shivering didn’t stop, but now, at least, it wasn’t from cold._

_“Anything you’d like to say poppet? The details of where you were come back to you yet? Something you want to share with me?” The senior demon leaned in close now, he could feel his breath on his cheek. Crowley tried his hardest to stay still and not look round._

_“Anything - hmmmm?” The growl in his ear nearly made him scream again, but he held it together enough to stay silent. Seemingly growing tired of the lack of response Hastur had sighed in a resigned way. He then breathed in very deeply and held his breath for a long time before exhaling. It was as if he was savouring the smell of his victim, tasting his fear, enjoying the moment._

_He spoke again in a low, predatory voice, “I’d prefer you made an effort poppet”. Crowley was confused by that instruction. An effort? He was in here for treason not stealing paper-clips - what use would an effort be? He was to be interrogated not punished, it had to hurt for it to be admissible evidence, an effort wouldn’t help with that would it? He stood confused, unsure what to do._

_“Female, I think” his tormentor growled again, starting to sound hungry. The growl hit his stomach deep down making him feel sick with anticipation. Perhaps his captor would find a way to turn his ‘effort’ into a torment all of its own. Interrogation for treason didn’t have to follow any of the established techniques, so long as it got the information necessary for the investigation._

_“Be good poppet….” Hastur was starting to sound a little impatient. He whimpered again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Re ‘hexed the pits’ - demons in this have use of their own energy/power via the traditional ‘demonic miracle’ method, but also have recourse to what would probably be called ‘magic’ through the use of hexes, which are generally sigils drawn onto physical items or even straight into the air. Hexes/spells/incantations are mentioned a few times.
> 
> * In the Tower Of London prisoners were ‘shown the rack’ (an instrument of torture) before being questioned and, only if they then refused to answer, was it subsequently used. This explains Hastur’s reference to ‘following procedure’ and his cajoling of Crowley to answer questions, even after it is quite clear he can’t provide the requested information.
> 
> * The phrase ‘making an effort’ is almost certainly familiar to readers - it comes, I believe, from the line in the book “angels are sexless unless they really want to make an effort”. Angels and demon are of the same stock, ergo demons are also sexless too. I’ve taken ‘sexless’ to refer simply to physical manifestation, not gender identity.
> 
> * Crowley effects an androgynous and/or sexless appearance by choice, but retains he/him pronouns despite ending up being outwardly female a lot of the time.


	7. Ducks!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley needs a break and the two consider how best to proceed - there are real ducks too

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * This marks the start of Aziraphale’s attempt at being a therapist and Crowley’s reaction to his first ‘session’. The story will follow this pattern going forward.

This was too much. He needed a break. He hung his head and whispered quietly: “ducks”. Ashamed that he’d had to stop so soon. His companion, therapist, friend, left without a word and returned with a hot drink. Not alcoholic.

Crowley shivered slightly, cupping his hands around the mug of coffee as if he would freeze without its warmth. He wasn’t sure he could go through with this. Perhaps it would have been better if he hadn’t started at all.

He stared into the fire in silence, not sure what was meant to happen now. Along with the vividness of the cell, the table and Hastur’s words, the feeling of helplessness had come back. He was waiting for instructions again. Too afraid to move without being told.

After a while he realised he was ignoring his friend. He looked over and saw Aziraphale had busied himself with a book. That was good. He wasn’t being watched. As he thought that, the angel looked up.

“You did very well Crowley. Would you like if it we went for a walk. Get a bit of air maybe?”

That was a very welcome suggestion. He dearly wanted a pure clean breeze to blow away the noisome smog of Hell. Of course, being London, it wasn’t really pure or clean air per se, but it was better than nothing.

They went to feed the ducks. Throwing peas into the pond they watched the greedy beaks snaffling up each one. “Ducks!” he said, meaning it to be amusing, but Aziraphale took it seriously.

“Do you need me to leave? Have some time to yourself?” He asked in a gentle voice.

For some reason he found that funny. As his laughter shook him he realised he couldn’t stop. His chest hurt and he couldn’t breathe. He recalled the remedy for hysterics was to slap the sufferer, and doubled up, hiding his face from the angel, whimpering against the inevitable pain.

Of course the angel didn’t slap him. Instead he used a miracle to transport them back to the bookshop. He tried to put his arm around the demon, who flinched back with a cry. He didn’t try to touch him again. Instead he said, brightly and cheerfully “why don’t you sit down and I’ll just get you a glass of water shall I?” and left without another word.

By the time the water arrived Crowley had calmed down a bit. He was sat, still doubled up, but taking deep breaths, gripping his knees tightly. Head down, eyes closed. He eventually realised the angel was stood nearby, holding a glass of water, waiting patiently while his friend composed himself.

Standing up, he took the water and drank it off in one. Then he picked up his wine and finished that as well, ignoring the hum of disapproval from Aziraphale. He looked around wonderingly, still half in a daze. His sides ached, his head was pounding too. He abruptly sat back down again, putting his aching head in his hands.

“I don’t think I can do this here” he admitted finally. Aziraphale looked confused at the words.

“I mean, the bookshop, it’s too… too… I don’t know what, but I don’t want to taint it with Hell. I want to go somewhere neutral, somewhere different”.

The angel still looked confused saying cautiously “your flat..?”

“No!” his reaction was violent. Hastur had been in his flat. Ligur was still melted into the carpet for all he knew. He couldn’t talk about it there. His words would conjure up too many ghosts.

The angel considered. Somewhere neutral. Somewhere they wouldn’t be interrupted. Somewhere they could come and go as they pleased - so it was *there* whenever Crowley was in the mood to talk.

“We could get a room at the Ritz hotel” he suggested hesitantly. The suggestion was received gratefully and he went to make arrangements.

He reassured the demon there was no need to go there immediately. It was a space they could use whenever they wanted it.

Crowley, however, insisted he wanted to go there straight away. He thought if he didn’t do it now he may never have the courage to do it at all. He wanted to at least check it out too, get a feel for the space. He did demand they make a trip to an off-license along the way to get more wine.

While the angel was unpacking a bag full of bottles the demon paced round the room. It was pristine. The walls were cream, the bed soft and huge, a chandelier hung with crystal glass and his feet almost sank into the thick carpet.

He took off his shoes, hoping the feel of the deep, soft pile would remind him he wasn’t in Hell. Keep him anchored. Keep him safe. He carried on pacing for a long while, finally turning a chair towards the fireplace and sitting down.

He wished there was a fire, something to ensure the cold damp of Hell couldn’t creep back into his bones. Being a demon the wish was soon translated to reality.

The fireplace was an original feature, but the chimneys had been blocked. Obviously the Ritz had central heating and no need of coal fires any longer. Aziraphale hastily ensured the smoke would miraculously find a way outside without filling the room or setting off the fire alarms. He then poured himself a glass of wine and passed a second to the demon, who looked up at him and shook his head.

“There’s no hurry dear” the angel said, in a matter of fact way. “No pressure, just start when you’re ready”. He placed the glass on a small table next to the demon's chair.

After a pause Crowley picked up the wine and drank. He took a deep breath and prepared to continue the story. It took a while before he could compose himself. He needed to steel himself to open the box inside his mind. Let the thoughts come out again.

As soon as he started he was overwhelmed. Helpless again. Lost in the storm, barely able to keep his head above the crashing waves. He drank unseeingly from his glass, the taste of wine was distant, dulled somehow.

He remembered the angel was here, someone who could pull him back if needed. He had a safe-word too. This was a secure space and, here, he could talk safely. His toes curled into the carpet, the fibres giving him confidence that he wasn’t really in Hell.

He closed his eyes and took a breath, the stench of the pits entered his nostrils. The darkness and the fear. It was so real, so vivid, that he whimpered in genuine trepidation. He knew what happened next. He tried to tell himself he was in control this time, he knew the story, all he had to do was get it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Hopefully it goes without saying that you shouldn’t slap hysterical people!
> 
> * I’ve not stayed at the Ritz personally, but I do love hotels and find them a useful ‘neutral space’ to get time-out from real life when needed. It is simply meant to represent the comfortable/safe environment Aziraphale recommended Crowley find to help him talk clearly.


	8. So Impatient (flashback)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley’s session in the pits with Hastur continues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * This chapter has the most explicit first-hand detail of torture - given in reaction rather than a direct exploration of what’s being done and not too gory. There is also fairly graphic sexual content. The sex bits do get worse/more extreme as the story progresses and other instances are described with a similar level of detail in later chapters. Just another warning for what’s already in the rating/tags really…

_Crowley concentrated and tried to obey Hastur’s instruction to ‘make an effort’. It was so difficult to think, he wasn’t sure he could do it._

_He felt a hand on his hip again, the press of the other’s body against his back. “Hush now my pretty, it’s ok, take your time”. He hadn’t realised he’d started crying again, a half whimpering sobbing that didn’t feel like his own voice._

_He took a breath and tried again. This time he had more success. He was rewarded with a hum in his ear. The hand ran up from his hip to cup one newly formed breast. “Maybe a bit larger poppet, a little more curve to those hips too, and a belly. I want you nicely rounded”._

_He hastened to follow the directions, mould his body to fit his tormentor’s wishes. For some reason the exaggerated femininity of the required figure, so different from his usual lithe, androgynous shape, made it feel more obscene. Nonetheless he succeeded in fulfilling the request and received another approving hum. The hand slid gently from breast to hip and back again, following the curve of his newly narrowed waist._

_“Now to business I think”. The voice was indeed business-like. This was more familiar territory. He waited for the next instruction. He expected to have to clamber onto the table, either that or be offered a choice of implement. That was a mean trick - pick your own torment. He glanced nervously down at the tray._

_Hastur noticed his glance, “so impatient poppet? All in good time my pretty”. The stroking resumed. The hand then slid round, following the curve of his newly plumped up belly and down towards more delicate areas. “It would be a shame to spoil such a pretty thing all in one go now wouldn’t it? What do you say poppet? Would you like to play a little first?”_

_Ah, so that was it. A warm up. Normally he’d decline, but this time he feared the sequel so much… torments fit for treason… he needed to buy time before the real pain started. Crowley nodded and managed a whispered ‘please’, before fingers began to probe between his legs. He closed his eyes tightly, but the tears still escaped. Then he clenched his thighs together reflexively._

_The hand was withdrawn. A cross sounding voice hissed into his ear “now play nicely poppet, or not at all”. He forced himself to relax and open his legs slightly, hating himself as he did so. The act of violation wasn’t new to him, but the forced acquiescence was. Most demons preferred a struggle, some screams, signs that it hurt._

_The hand came back to stroke gently. Almost like a lover would. “Hands on the table now poppet, bend over”. A soft growl belied a clear intent and Crowley suppressed a shudder of distaste. He did as he was bid though, and followed the next, implied, instruction as he felt a foot nudging his ankles further apart._

_Instead of pushing further into him the fingers continued stroking gently, probing carefully. Hastur found his target and Crowley let out a surprised moan. He immediately flushed with embarrassment. How could he enjoy this? The touches had persisted. The demon was pressed into his back now, his scent overpowering, his fingers applied expertly, relentlessly. This was too much._

_He couldn’t move from his position, didn’t dare displease his captor, that would only make the pain start sooner. He had to stand still, allow this. He’d asked for this. That his own body provided lubrication for those stroking, rubbing fingers, made him cringe inwardly. Maybe if he tensed the muscles in his arms and legs, screwed his eyes shut tight enough, maybe then he wouldn’t feel the waves of pleasure his tormentor was causing. Try as he might though, he couldn’t escape the inevitability of the heat building inside him._

_When his orgasm broke over him, Crowley started crying in earnest. Perhaps the torments would have been a better choice. There was a purity in pain, not like this. He felt gentle kisses being applied to his neck, a purring in his ear. He pushed his body back against the demon behind him, seeking comfort without thinking, and was immediately aghast at what he’d done._

_His tormentor seemed pleased though “you really are an impatient little thing aren’t you poppet? Can’t wait for me. You really want this eh?” After a moment’s silence Hastur admonished him sternly: “answer me!” making Crowley yelp and jump._

_He concentrated enough to get the words out between sobs ‘yes, your disgrace’._

_At this Hastur withdrew. Crowley remained bent over the table, still with the afterglow of his orgasm warming him with engorged blood vessels and shame._

_“My poor little poppet, you don’t know what you want do you?” Crowley shook his head. He realised then that he’d grown out his hair, it tumbled down below his shoulders now, in glowing, auburn waves. He wasn't sure why he'd done it. Make himself look prettier, try to please his tormentor. Surely that wasn't it? Another flush of embarrassment._

_Behind him the senior demon sighed. This time his voice was quite different. “Look, I don’t like this any more than you do. There’s a list here. A list of times and dates with your name next to them. Now I know this is a lie. I know personally where you were on at least half of these occasions and I’ve made enquiries about the others”._

_In his surprise Crowley stood up and turned to face Hastur, forgetting his position, too shocked to comprehend what he’d just heard. He looked directly into those eyes again. So dark, so wide, like he was being sucked into a deep ocean. He felt like he might drown. The demon before him, his tormentor, was smiling._

_“Yes poppet. I can get you out of this. I can stop it, but you’re going to have to cooperate. I can’t just let you go, you know. There’s due process to consider, and a demon has a reputation to maintain. It doesn’t do to go too soft now does it?” He sounded so reasonable, so kind and patient._

_"Back in position poppet, be good for me". Crowley obeyed immediately, not sure what to expect. The gentle stroking of his waist and hips started again, then he heard a clink of metal. The cold of the blade rested against his back as Hastur hummed again. "This is going to hurt, but you'll be ok. Try to stay still now"._

_It had hurt. A lot. Hastur knew exactly what he was doing, how to twist the blade just right. He could see blood dripping onto the floor but not enough for him to pass out. The pain too was measured. Enough to make him cry out at each new hurt inflicted. Enough to flood the peripheries of his vision with greyish static. Enough to make him feel one step away from being in free-fall, to cause nausea and dizziness. Not enough to let him lose consciousness._

_He lost count of the cuts, some delicate, little more than scratches slicing the first layers of his skin, others deeper. It felt like a pattern being drawn, maybe a hex to make it more painful or something pretty just to amuse his tormentor. His breathing was shallow. He didn’t dare breath too deeply in case the movement made the blade slip and cause more serious damage. No miracle healing with Hastur, he might bleed out. Was the knife cursed? Could it really kill him or would he just discorporate?_

_He couldn’t think. Eyes tight shut, nails dragging to and fro across the wooden surface of the table. Would he get splinters? The texture of the table at least seemed to distract a little from the pain in his back and side. Pains. It hurt all over, was a pattern still being drawn? Was there any skin left to carve it in?_

_After what seemed like a lifetime Hastur withdrew the knife. Crowley opened his eyes. His vision was pulsing, the table blurring in and out of focus before him. He could barely stand, but remembered his instructions: 'stay still'. He couldn't let himself move. Mustn't disobey._

_The burning heat of the cuts throbbed in sync with the heartbeat that sounded deafeningly in his ears. He realised he'd started sobbing again. He felt his tormentor close again now and whimpered between the sobs. This would just be the warm up. He hadn't even made it on to the table yet. He waited for the next command, desperately trying to hold his shaking body still._

_"Such a good little thing aren't you poppet? Concentrate now, just a few more. Be good for me". There had been a few more, only a few, and then Hastur walked round to get a cloth and clean the blade. He placed it carefully back in its place on the tray while Crowley shivered and bled at the table. His tears dripped down to join the splashes of blood on the floor below him._

_He was slipping now, near to losing focus, close to the mercy of unconsciousness. It wasn't to be. He felt hands on him. Cool hands, slightly rough, stroking gently. By the purple-black flares of unholy energy he guessed some damage was being repaired._

_With Hastur there was no healing. He left scars. If that was the case why was he being healed now? Would he have scars?_

_It was as if his tormentor had heard his thoughts. "I wouldn't want to spoil my pretty little poppet too much, now would I? Hmmm?" The deep hum twisted something in his gut. He didn't trust the words, knew something lay behind them, but was too befuddled by the pain to understand. He'd understand later though. Know what those words meant. He was Hastur's now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * This kind of sets the tone for how things will go between the pair really - although there’s a lot more to come.


	9. Can I Ask A Question

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A break for Crowley and a chance for Aziraphale to ask a question

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Chapters alternate to give a chance for reflection on each major ‘event’ but there aren’t necessarily any answers/conclusions - the chapter lengths vary wildly too, but I was focused more on keeping the rhythm of the story than ensuring equal word-count for different parts - hope the imbalance isn’t too annoying

After this part of the story had been whispered out hesitantly. He felt drained. The hotel room no longer seemed real. His mind was back in Hell and he didn’t think he’d ever get out.

Aziraphale had cleared his throat hesitantly. Crowley jumped up, almost tripping on the chair, and turned to the angel in shock. He’d forgotten he was even here. He flushed with shame. What must the angel think? His breaths came shallow and fast, like there was something stuck in his throat stopping him from breathing properly. A panicked half cry escaped with each exhale.

The angel smiled at him in a reassuring way. He didn’t attempt to approach him or make physical contact, for which Crowley was supremely grateful - or would be if his thoughts would stop racing long enough for him to catch onto them.

His head felt like it might explode, he couldn’t get enough air, couldn’t see properly. The furniture around him, the soft creams of the room, the deep red and gold of the curtains, melded into each other. Everything had soft edges now. Nothing was clear. Giving in to the inevitable, he sunk to the floor. Still conscious, but unable to stand any longer.

He couldn’t do this. His hands grasped at the carpet, running his fingers through the tufts, pulling at each one until the repetition of the action made it painful. He rocked, his breathing synchronising with the movement, his hands pulling harder at the carpet until some individual tufts came loose. He held them wonderingly, looking closely at each one as if he wasn’t sure what it was, rubbing the woollen strands as if the reality of the texture would banish the fear inside him.

After a while he calmed down enough to stand again. There was a slightly bare patch on the carpet where he’d sat. He looked apologetically at the angel who simply waved a hand and repaired the damage.

“Can I ask a question my dear?” Aziraphale said hesitantly, his voice calm and quiet. Crowley nodded, not quite feeling up to speech.

“Do you think this was what he was referring to when he said ‘I can’t stop it this time’ at the trial? Did he mean he’d ‘stopped it’ the first time you’d been accused of treason?”

The world neatly span round on itself and Crowley reached out blindly until he found his chair. He sat clumsily and nearly fell off the edge of his seat. Was that what Hastur had meant? It could be - he’d not thought about the ‘this time’ bit, only the use of the name, but it had to mean something. Hastur didn’t waste time on small talk.

He shrugged “yeah I guess so. Makes sense”. Hastur wouldn’t say something without an intent behind it. Usually a bad intent, a desire to hurt. A reminder of their first time together in the pits, their first ‘encounter’, certainly fitted the bill as something that would hurt him. Why, though, had he apologised first? That bit still didn’t make sense.

The wine glass was empty and Crowley didn’t trust himself to pour a glass. His hands were shaking, but his mouth was so dry. He coughed a little, hoping the sound would give the angel a hint.

“Ha! I think that means you’d like a drink, doesn’t it?” the angel sounded genuinely amused. He was smiling too. While he was looking at the angel he felt a glass being pushed into his hands.

Looking down he saw the wine glass and stared at it for nearly a minute without fully realising what it was. The hard, cold texture of the glass felt weird in his hands after the soft fibres of the carpet. When he eventually drank, the wine tasted strange. Dark and spicy, tingling a little on his tongue. Had wine always tasted like this? Was this a hangover from some of those drugs he’d been taking?

“We can take a break if you like. Go out, or back to the bookshop. It’s up to you”.

The demon nearly panicked at that. He’d only just got his courage up enough to talk. If he stopped now he didn’t think he’d ever be able to pick it up again. He needed to finish this part of the story. At least finish the first chapter.

He shook his head violently, holding out the glass for a refill and drinking deeply. “Need to carry on” he said, adding “it gets worse” and glaring defiantly at the angel.

Aziraphale had just nodded so he looked away, staring again into the fire, preparing to pick up the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * I’m not sure how easy it is to pick a good quality carpet apart, but Crowley is a demon, so even if it requires some considerable strength I think he could probably do it.


	10. It’s Over (flashback)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of Crowley’s torment session and a return to work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *More sexual content - although a little plot in this too…

_The healing miracles were done slowly. Only repairing enough damage to ensure he wouldn't pass out or bleed too much. Then his boss’s hands roamed more freely. Again he felt cool fingers rubbing his clit. A breast was cupped and massaged slowly. After the pain this felt so good. He forgot what it was about, who was doing it, and just relaxed into those touches._

_Hastur leaned in close and Crowley felt himself surrounded by the senior demon’s aura. His own thoughts became distant and fuzzy as he allowed himself to be overwhelmed. He could hear the soft growling in his ear and started responding himself with gentle moans. It was hard to stand still and he rocked slightly in time with the rhythm of his tormentor’s fingers. He was so wet, so aroused, so sensitive, he couldn’t stop himself crying out with the intensity of it._

_The senior demon hummed deeply as a second orgasm flooded through his victim._

_This time there were no questions, no pauses, no reprieve. Crowley felt the hardness enter him and whined at the overload of sensation. It felt good, really good. The senior demon was surprisingly gentle to start with. His thrusts went deep, but remained slow. That is, until Crowley had started pushing back into them. Then he sped up._

_Fireworks of pleasure flashed through Crowley's brain. He didn't want this to end. It felt so good. He moaned at each hard thrust, lost himself to the floating high, the bolts of pleasure. Why and who no longer mattered. All there was, was arousal and need. A loud grunt and he felt his hips gripped tightly and held against the other demon's body. It was over._

_Unexpectedly, it actually was over too. Hastur cleaned him up, instructed him to dress, and even told him he didn't need to keep up the 'effort' any longer. Crowley gratefully relaxed into androgyny then total asexuality. He felt less vulnerable like that. His boss gently helped him to a seat and he sat, dazed and confused, while various of the pit demons came in and out of the room. There had been a lot of whispering, then shouting._

_Finally he became aware that attention was back on him. Looking up he saw Lord Beelzebub and panicked. He fell to his knees, tried to form the words to beg for mercy, protest the unfair charges, promise to fulfil any penance. He’d do anything to secure his release. The demon Lord scowled at him, then turned to Hastur, nodding in agreement, saying "yezzzz" and then departing._

_He blinked up at Hastur, unsure what had happened. His boss winked at him. "Up you get poppet, unless you've got something in mind while you’re down there..." Crowley shook his head in a confused way. Hastur laughed and handed him a signed release slip. It was over._

_Of course it wasn't over. Not really. Not ever. He'd endured the curious looks from his colleagues. Was grateful for the blood seeping through his robe to account for his silence. If he'd been uninjured there would have been questions. The demons respected pain, didn't question it. They left him alone, for which he was grateful._

_He had a space he'd carved out of the softer rocks near the fiery lake. Somewhere he could be alone. Privacy was a luxury most of Hell lacked. Here at least he could relax his guard enough for the tears to fall unchecked._

_He tried to heal the remaining cuts, but the miracles caused painful jolts. When he persevered he realised his efforts were making the cuts worse not better. With Hastur there was no healing. The wounds were obviously cursed against miracled relief._

_Instead he curled himself up, made his snake form as small as he could, and tried to rest. Maybe rest would help. Being in snake form meant he wouldn't look like he was asleep. No eyelids to waver and close. He let his mind relax and tried to think objectively about what had happened._

_The feelings were conflicted. He should be dead, or tortured to the edge of madness like old Ezra. That he wasn't, was entirely due to Hastur. He should be grateful._

_The hot sting of unhealable wounds reminded him of why he wasn't grateful. As did the shameful memory of the other things his boss had taken from him. Two orgasms and a moaning, lustful acquiescence in his own abuse._

_He flushed at the memory and sobbed all the harder. That his behaviour had been shaped by terror, and bought to fruition by the endorphins-induced euphoria after physical pain, didn’t comfort him. He knew what he’d done, how he’d reacted, and was ashamed._

_He forced himself back into human shape the next morning, wincing at the pain from the multiple injuries along his back and sides. At the office everything was reassuringly normal. Not reassuring at all that is, but nothing was discernibly different at least._

_He managed to collect his wits together long enough to notice that form 115b had been updated again so he didn’t waste his time completing the old version. He also hissed a warning to one of his colleagues to prevent them making the same mistake. They looked at him strangely, then nodded acknowledgement and went back to their work._

_Throughout the next few days the same thing happened several times. The demons were obviously curious and unrequited curiosity usually ended in bitterness and suspicion. Although he carried some wounds they were not of the level expected for a treason torments session - even a preliminary session. So, after a miraculous and unexplained escape from a treason charge, the other demons had naturally assumed there was something behind it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Re Demons’ Auras/Energy - in this demons are more or less powerful depending on how much energy they have and how they can project and control that energy. It’s what they use to project temptations into human minds and do ‘infernal’ miracles. They can use it to attempt to control/intimidate less powerful demons too. Hastur is obviously much more powerful than Crowley.
> 
> * In this world demons are expected to rest to ensure they’re at their best for work. However, junior demons aren’t given any personal space to rest in. They do have access to various bars, rec-rooms and communal areas, as we’ll see later, including food and drink, and, although they don’t need it, most demons indulge.
> 
> * The mundanities of Hell’s admin are glossed over in this - in case anyone wondered ‘form 115b’ is the ‘sin submission form’ in which demons enter the temptation date, sin succumbed to and date of attempted soul collection. There isn’t a ‘form 115a’ but that doesn’t stop senior demons requesting one from time to time just to watch their underlings panic when they can’t find it.


	11. It’s What he Does

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aziraphale tries to comfort Crowley who hasn’t reacted well to telling this part of the tale

Crowley recalled the attitude of his colleagues bitterly. His escape from torment had cruelly separated him from the other demons. He'd escaped. They hadn't.

It had marked the start of his isolation from his fellows. Looking back he'd decided this was the defining incident. The reason he'd lost his place in the loose alliance of lower demons. No one trusted in Hell, but some were distrusted more than others.

Aziraphale tried to fathom this. Crowley could see he looked confused.

“It’s what he did angel. Separated the weak from the herd and picked us off one by one. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one. I’m sure I wasn’t….” he tailed off at that, not sure how to continue.

As far as he knew he *was* the only one Hastur had taken that sort of interest in. His fellow demons had been left behind. He had been singled out as ‘special’. He didn’t want to be special, if he was one of a series, no different to many others, that made what happened more bearable.

Picking up in a more vehement tone, he protested “I don’t know who else, but there must have been others. I can’t have been the only one. I wasn’t special. There wasn’t anything different about me, whatever he said and I didn’t lead him on deliberately. He couldn’t have really believed I wanted any of this”.

His voice took on a panicked note. This had been too much too soon. He couldn’t think straight. The shame came flooding back, permeating his defences, suffocating his rational thoughts with the humiliation, yet again.

“There must have been others. It wasn’t just me. I wasn't special and I didn’t encourage him”. He cried out. When he saw the angel’s expression he started to sob, curling in on himself in a defensive ball. He was sure he wasn’t believed. Everyone in Hell had thought he’d wanted it, asked for it, enjoyed it in the end.

He poked the wound and admitted the worst. Even the first time, even when he’d been a prisoner in the pits, totally helpless, he had enjoyed it. His body had at least. The physical evidence of his degradation had been exposed for Hastur to see and revel in. Bent over, legs apart, wet and groaning with desire, pushing his body into his attacker like a willing slut.

The angel still hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t answered his pleading to be believed. He felt the world closing in on him again, the panic rushing in to fill his senses. In reality he only paused for a second. Aziraphale hadn’t had time to have said anything, but time didn’t make sense to him anymore, he couldn’t think.

“You can’t blame yourself for what he did to you. Any reactions you had were involuntary. He was torturing you. It was against your will. He raped you. It was an act of violence perpetrated against you deliberately. There’s nothing to blame yourself for”.

The words didn’t help. The angel didn’t know the worst of it yet. When he heard the rest lets just see what he thought. It got worse. He was so ashamed of his behaviour, he knew he was in the wrong. He had to get through the story, get the guilt out, once the worst was known maybe he could move on.

He tried to pull himself together. The darkness cleared a little and he saw he was still sat on the chair in the Ritz, the soft floral chintz of the chair helped push Hell away enough to think. He sighed and reached for the wine glass yet again. He would focus on each part of the story separately, discuss it in isolation. He couldn’t cope with the whole.

“I could have done something though. I could have fought him, refused to make an ‘effort’, opted for the pain instead of asking to ‘play’. I could have just accepted the torments. I was weak, afraid. Other demons had been through it and didn’t make the same choice I did. I was a coward”.

Aziraphale was horrified by this. How could his demon think this way? He tried to keep his voice neutral, not give away the horror he felt. He asked gently “did he say that to you?”

Crowley was taken by surprise. He answered in a confused voice “no, he didn’t say anything like that, he never even talked about it. He took it for granted I think, but I knew that’s what the other demons thought. Everyone knew what happened. Hell knows. Hell always finds out. They knew I’d been weak and cowardly, letting him do that to me. Asking for it. Enjoying it. They knew”.

With that he stood and begun pacing. The room was far too large for his liking. His mind wanted to curl up under a rock by the fiery lake. He was exposed in this open space. Dragged out of the dark to be examined and scrutinised. His shameful behaviour, his acquiesce and his lust, forced into the spotlight. He couldn’t cope with it.

Looking around him he saw a space. Like his hole in the rock, somewhere to hide. If he hid well enough maybe the nightmares couldn’t find him. The guilt would fester at his core, but at least no-one else would see it.

The wardrobe door was flung open and he insinuated himself into the tight space. Humanity slipping away as his snake form took over. With his tail he tried to catch the edge of the door pull it shut. If he could enclose himself in the darkness, away from view, away from the shame, maybe he would be ok.

The door wouldn’t catch. Even in his smallest state he was too large to fit. With an angry snarl he turned back to human shape. He kicked the door open and searched the room. He walked, rapidly pacing up and down, looking left and right, he needed somewhere to hide.

The adrenaline coursed through his system, making his hands shake and his breathing quicken. There must be somewhere, some dark and secret hole he could bury himself in. Ah - that would do.

The angel watched amazed as his demon frantically paced and hissed, the panic and fear rolling off him in sickening waves of emotion. His aura was expanding, the dark purple fug of desperate terror making the angel frightened by proxy.

Crowley pulled a chair out from the desk and crawled into the space underneath. He pulled the chair back into the gap, as closely as he could. He was mostly hidden from the room now. His snake form took over and he curled tightly in on himself, letting his reptilian eyes scan the room from between the chair legs, forked tongue tasting the air, trying to find the threat that pressed in so heavily.

“I think that’s enough for now, you’ve done so well. I’m proud of you. You’re so brave my dear, don’t ever think you’re not brave”. No reaction. Aziraphale continued in a calm level voice: “there was nothing you could have done. If you’d tried to resist it would have been worse. You know that really, don’t you?” The angel spoke so softly now, so gently, seemingly without judgement.

Aziraphale even seemed to be ignoring the bizarre results of this latest panic attack. Crowley realised he was getting cramp, curled under the desk in the tiny space of the foot-well, the chair pulled in tight against his body.

The room seemed to lighten and he pushed the chair out a little. As he slowly emerged, he eyed the angel suspiciously. Was this a trick? What purpose would that serve? Would his secrets be used against him somehow.

He reminded himself again that this wasn’t Hell. This was a room in the Ritz and he was talking to an angel. His angel. His hereditary enemy but also his best friend. He calmed down enough to say “I think that’s ‘ducks’ for the day angel”.

After that they finished the wine in silence. They sat apart. Crowley couldn’t cope with any closeness, any intimacy. He was grateful that the angel seemed to understand. Didn’t push it. 

The following weeks were fraught with nightmares and doubt. Perhaps talking about it wasn’t helping at all, was in fact, making it worse.

He voiced his concerns, worried Aziraphale would be scornful at his weakness. He had been reassuring. These things took time. It was difficult. There was no hurry, but it was worth pursuing, would be in the end anyway.

Despite the reassurances it was still several weeks before he felt brave enough to pick it up again. They once again headed for the room in the Ritz, with a carry-out bag of wine and some trepidation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * I used the word ‘bizarre’ regarding the result of Crowley’s panic attack. Hiding in a wardrobe/under the desk as a result of anxiety/panic attacks isn’t actually ‘bizarre’ or even particularly unusual. The word is meant to convey how Crowley feels about it personally and isn’t an objective observation.
> 
> * Aziraphale’s responses are meant to be entirely genuine. I’m a little worried he might sound patronising, but that honestly isn’t the intent.


	12. A New Assignment (flashback)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back at work Crowley dreads finding out what else Hastur has got in store for him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Crowley is often terrified while in Hell, sometimes when there is no apparent reason for being so frightened. It isn’t meant to denote weakness, only to show what being there for a thousand plus years has done to him. This is the story of his worst years. As you know he ends up on earth and obviously improves by the time of the series.

_At the end of the week Hastur had summoned Crowley to his office._

_The junior demon felt butterflies of fear in his stomach, as he dragged his feet slowly across the room. Somehow walking became more and more difficult as he got nearer the door. The scabs on his half-healed cuts itched and burned as his robe rubbed against them. He looked to his peers for support, but none would make eye contact, no-one even acknowledged his progress to the fateful door._

_Hastur was stood behind his desk facing away from him. Crowley stood too, he wasn’t sure whether to announce his presence. He shuffled his feet awkwardly and looked to the ground. After what felt like far too long Hastur turned around. He could just about make out the lower half of his boss’s body by peering up through the curtain of his hair._

_He realised then that his hair had grown again, subtlety waved, glowing red. He felt his robe shift just a little too, as his hips rounded out, irritating a scab on his side. Making himself look his best he thought bitterly, disgusted at his body’s instinctive half-effort._

_“Look at me” the instruction was given in a slightly impatient tone, mildly irritated. It did not bode well._

_Crowley snapped his head up and gazed directly into his boss’s eyes. Those eyes disturbed him. They were unreadable. So dark, so deep. He gave an involuntary shiver._

_“Easy now. You’ve been to the pits already. This isn’t another summons”. Along with the reassuring words he smiled. Crowley almost relaxed. Almost, but not quite. Never trust in Hell. Just because it wasn’t a trip to the pits that his boss had in store for him, didn’t mean it wouldn’t be something terrible. Just something differently terrible._

_Hastur pulled his chair out and sat. The movement was slightly stiff, he almost limped, and, when he reached for the file on the desk in front of him, he gave a barely noticeable wince. Crowley was confused. He should have known better, but he spoke on impulse._

_“Are you alright?” Bless it! He shouldn’t have let on he had noticed anything. Certainly shouldn’t question his boss. Too close to insubordination. Too close to caring. Never show you care, that was a weakness and they'd exploit it, they always did._

_The senior demon just smiled though, as if he was pleased his awkward movements had been noticed. He waved a hand dismissively “you don’t end a torments session early without consequences you know? Even if the subject is wrongly accused”. He leaned forward a little at these words, and gazed intently into his subordinates’ eyes for way longer than was comfortable._

_The junior demon was confused. Had his boss really taken a turn in the pits for him? To save him from more pain? He immediately felt guilty for his lack of gratitude and flushed, looking down at the floor again._

_“Don’t look away. Never look away from me”. The words came out in an angry snarl._

_A slight whimper escaped him and he snapped his head back up and allowed his boss to stare, unblinkingly, into his eyes again. He felt the waves of suffocating energy flowing out from the senior demon. It was as if those eyes were boring inside his head, reading his thoughts. He realised he’d started to tremble._

_Hastur sat back in his chair, opening the file and shuffling through the papers, humming quietly to himself as he did so. He extracted a sheet and passed it to Crowley, who took it without looking. By the colour it must be a work docket, but he didn’t want to read it. Reading would necessitate looking away from his boss, something he’d been specifically told never to do._

_He stood awkwardly holding the sheet, letting Hastur’s eyes roam up and down his figure while he stared at the green blotches on his boss’s cheeks and forehead. He was suddenly horrifyingly aware of what his treacherous body had done to him. He now had soft, ample curves, a swelling bosom and artfully waved long hair. What must his boss think?_

_“Good poppet” the Duke had crooned, in a low soft voice that couldn’t possibly have been overheard by anyone outside the room._

_“Read it”. The instruction was barked out in a loud voice, one that would, most likely, have been heard by the demons of the outer office had they been listening at the keyhole. Not that Hell had keyholes, but demons routinely listened at where the keyholes would be._

_The work docket was for a job on earth. Earth! Freedom. Temporary, near freedom, at least. He almost cried in relief. He took a deep breath. Tried desperately not to let the senior demon see just how happy he was about the assignment. If something made you happy Hell would find out. Hell would take it away. He couldn’t cope with that thought._

_“Don’t just stand there - get going - now!” yelled his superior, apparently not noticing the unguarded moment of joy on his underling’s face._

_Crowley jumped and hastened to bustle out of the office. On opening the door he was sure one of the other demons had only just got back to his desk in time. He looked to his colleague, but again he wouldn’t make eye contact._

_As he got to the main door - the door leading to freedom - he heard Hastur’s shout “wait”. His heart sank. He’d been found out. His boss had realised how much he wanted this. Realised how welcome the assignment was. Now it would be taken away._

_Had this been the plan all along? Take his emotions on a roller-coaster ride. High up, to the nearest thing to hope you could feel in Hell, then dashed down back to the pits of despair. Maybe the actual pits. He froze. The least he could do was to ensure he obeyed without question._

_Behind him he heard Hastur huff in irritation. “You’re still bleeding. Can’t have you up on earth like that. I’m going to have to mend those”. Crowley turned, amazed by this. Still too wary to dare think that this was really what was going to happen. With Hastur there was no healing - but apparently this didn’t apply to him._

_With two long strides Hastur had got within reach and roughly grabbed his subordinate by the shoulder. Crowley yelped in surprise and pain at the sudden hard grip. His boss growled “don’t think I’ll make a habit of this - Crawly”. That was the first time he’d used his actual name, it sounded wrong, like an insult._

_A bolt of purple-black light and he felt the wounds close. His robe was still blood stained, but underneath the cuts had healed._

_"Now get changed and get out. I expect you to report back to me as soon as you’re done. Do you understand? As soon as you’re done”. Crowley nodded mutely, but Hastur was already stalking back to his office, not waiting for an answer. What was he up to?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * In the series Crowley changed his name from Crawly at some point between the Mesopotamia scene and the Golgotha one. At this point in time he is still correctly called ‘Crawly’, not having effected the change yet. However, to keep things simple, he’s referred to as ‘Crowley’ in the narrative regardless of whether he was actually ‘Crawly’ at the time events took place.


	13. You Won’t Upset Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley isn’t sure he wants to carry on the story - as it concerns his time on earth

The next part of the story would be difficult. It tied the hitherto timeless, unconnected events down in Hell to reality as the angel would know it. Crowley found he didn't want to proceed.

So far he'd put Hell in its own compartment. Able to discuss it only because it was kept at a narrative distance. That was Hell; this is now. The next events spanned that gap.

He stalled instead. Standing and getting a new bottle of wine. Pouring a glass for himself and for the angel before pacing the room.

“Why do you think he gave you an earth assignment?” Aziraphale asked.

It was a question Crowley had thought about before and he had an instant answer “to make the other demons jealous, make them hate me". They had hated him too. He got special treatment, he got his wounds healed and sent to earth, unlike them.

He looked at the angel and decided he had to be honest. He amended his stock answer, the one he’d told himself over and over to make things seem ok, justify things. “I don’t know though…. Maybe he didn’t even think about it. Hastur hated earth y’know, he might just have wanted to get out of it. Thought I’d hate it just as much”.

“He didn’t realise you wanted to go?”

That was a good question. He’d told himself so many times that nothing Hastur did was ever motivated by anything other than the desire to hurt. That he was sadistic, enjoyed other’s suffering, was a given. Hastur from the Pits. He tortured for fun as well as work. He had a reputation.

When he reviewed this first earth assignment with the benefit of hindsight though, he wasn’t sure. It was certainly possible Hastur sent him to earth despite knowing he wanted to go. It may have been more than just the convenience of getting an underling to do a job he didn’t want, too. It could have been because he knew he’d do a good job… it could also have been an attempt at kindness.

Surely not though. Hastur wasn’t kind. Crowley knew that well enough. That must mean it had been malicious or accidental, it couldn’t be anything else could it? Suddenly he realised he just wasn’t sure and didn’t think he ever would be. When he considered the assignment in light of later events…

Crowley realised his mind was jumping ahead of itself and stopped himself. The story must be told in order. He shrugged, non-committal, he didn’t know did he? This was getting too difficult, he wasn’t sure what to say.

The angel hastened to reassure: “it’s alright not to be sure, things are never clear cut, even looking back you can’t always be certain”.

He really didn’t know why Hastur had sent him. Admitting he wasn’t sure about it seemed to take a little of the weight off him. It didn’t have to make sense. He didn’t have to justify anything to the angel. It was done, unchangeable. All he had to do was tell the story as best he could.

He took a deep breath. “This bit concerns earth angel. You were there. I don’t know if I want you to know…..it might upset you”.

“My dear, don’t worry about me! Whatever happened is in the past now. We were almost different people - entities - then. So much has happened since. You won’t upset me, just be brave about it and tell me. It doesn’t matter if you hated Heaven, hated me even, this wasn’t long after the Fall was it? I wouldn’t blame you for being angry”.

Crowley laughed at that. “It was over a thousand years after the rebellion angel and I’d never hold that against you personally anyway”.

“The whole thing was thousands of years ago and you’re still clearly upset. As to the rebellion… well we all fought in that war didn’t we? I wouldn’t blame you for being angry”. It was said sadly, as if the angel was remembering some particular incident.

The demon didn’t really notice. He was still indecisive. Did he really want to carry on with this exercise? He’d told the angel enough surely? He didn’t need to finish the story did he? The more he told the nearer he got to the bit he was most ashamed of. The worst thing he’d ever done. He wasn’t sure even an angel could forgive him that sin.

“Perhaps we should take a break” he suggested hopefully.

Aziraphale frowned at him “you can take a break if you need to dear, but if we’re going to do this you’ll need to tell me at some point. If it helps, imagine I’m someone else, someone you don’t know”.

“Yes but you’re not are you? You’re someone I know very well, and I want to carry on knowing you. If I tell you everything. If you find out what I did, maybe you won’t want to know me anymore. Maybe you’ll just leave”.

He was scared and it made him bitter. He didn’t have to talk, he didn’t have to tell anyone. Then he remembered the nightmares and the insomnia and the constant fear that his memory would come back to ambush him. He had to do something.

“My dear friend. I’ll never walk away from you. It doesn’t matter what happened. I promise, nothing that you did, nothing that they did to you, will ever change a thing. After what you’ve told me so far, I wouldn’t blame you if you’d set fire to the whole of Hell and burned Hastur alive along with it!”

Crowley laughed in a humourless sort of way “you already know I burned him alive angel! But what if it’s worse than that?”

“Anthony J Crowley I am an angel. If I tell you nothing will make a difference then who are you to doubt me? Nothing will change my feelings for you. The only thing that might change is how *you* feel about it, and that can hardly get any worse now can it? Things can only get better - alright?”

The demon gave a genuine snort of laughter this time “don’t you pull the ‘I’m an angel’ line with me Mr A Z Fell. I've known you too long to fall for that old chestnut.... Alright, I’ll carry on for a bit, but I’m warning you, you might not like it”.

With that ominous prelude he composed himself to continue the story, at least this bit would give him a break from talking about Hastur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Although there is a reference to a ‘particular incident’ during the war in Heaven that Aziraphale may be remembering, this isn’t explored further so please don’t hold your breath for explanations. Sorry to anyone who picked up on that and hoped for more.
> 
> * The name ‘Mr A Z Fell’ is the one printed on the outside of the angel’s bookshop in the series.
> 
> *There is a recurrent theme of pessimism and ominous foreshadowing from Crowley that the angel never quite cuts through. Be warned there is more of it to come (my own attempt at ominous foreshadowing there).


	14. Earth (flashback)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to the time of the flood and his meeting with Aziraphale while they watch the ark being finished

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Technically this is more Aziraphale/Crowley than Crowley/Hastur, but in historical context
> 
> *Reference to children being killed in the flood

_After donning a clean robe Crowley read the docket properly. What was it he was meant to be doing? It didn’t seem like much. He was apparently being sent up as more of an observer than anything else. A few little temptations along the way, but mainly he was expected to witness something and report back. Hell knew it was something big, but not what exactly, they needed details._

_This should be easy. He was still suspicious. Why was Hastur doing all this for him? What was the end-goal? Accepting things were as they were, for no reason, thinking he’d just got lucky nothing more, wasn’t acceptable. That wasn’t how Hell worked. There was always something behind it, some nasty surprise waiting to jump out and hurt you. What was Hastur up to?_

_He tried to dismiss the doubt from his mind for now. At least up on earth he would have room to think, to breathe, maybe even to relax. The thought of sitting in the sun, basking in the warm, nourishing light for even an hour, forced a smile to his face. He quickly dismissed it. Don’t let Hell know you’re enjoying this. Don’t let anyone know._

_Up on earth he took in the scenery, drank the wine, ate the bread. Life was good. After a couple of days his carefully eked out temptations had been completed and he was no nearer to finding out what it was he was meant to be watching for._

_He scouted around hoping to catch the whispered edges of someone else’s secrets, a rumour, an anomaly, anything really. It was then that he heard about the mad man and his boat. Apparently there was a man building this huge boat, an ark he called it, against the possibility of flooding. Crowley had smiled at that. The desert soil was dry, the sun beat down from cloudless skies. The idea of a flood was ridiculous._

_Nevertheless, it was something for him to check out, so he ambled along to the site. There he saw an angel. The Angel - the one from Eden. This assignment was just getting better and better. He insinuated himself through the crowds to stand by the side of his target, looking forward to a little gentle teasing, a friendly conversation with his opposite number. That’s how he learned about the flood._

_He wrote up his report in a little taverna, far enough away from the ever rising waters to only count as mildly damp. As the puddles grew and the land slowly disappeared he got more and more apprehensive. This couldn’t really be happening could it? Was this really Her plan? Reluctantly he went out to check, just to be sure._

_He watched for a few days. Watched the kids die. The children often died last, held in their parents’ arms above the water, sat perched on the roofs of houses crying in fear. After seeing the umpteenth bloated corpse attacked by crocodiles, he made his way back to Hell. It was almost a relief. Well, not a relief at all, but it was a change at least._

_All those people. All gone. Even the kids. Drowning was a nasty way to go too. He sighed and, remembering his instructions, headed directly to the office to deliver his report._

_Hastur wasn’t there. That much was clear by the soft murmur of conversation that reached his ears as he approached the door. He still pushed his way in, thinking maybe he wouldn’t have long to wait. Maybe the others would know where the boss was._

_Silence descended as soon as he entered. The demons all glared at him resentfully. He realised he was still in his clean, earth-going robes, his skin lightly kissed by the sun, his body untouched by Hell’s corruption._

_He hastened to look mildly panicked and dreadfully worried, like something terrible was about to happen to him. He didn’t want to stand out as the only one not in pain, not suffering, that would never do._

_Reluctantly one of the other demons answered his scared sounding enquiries. He knew now that Hastur had retired for the day. Skiving off early wasn’t unheard of in Hell, but it didn’t seem like the sort of thing his boss would normally do. He was a diligent demon who stuck rigidly to the letter of the rules wasn’t he? What was he doing buggering off before the third hour-candle was even lit? Was this a trick?_

_Crowley didn’t feel he could delay giving the report. He’d been told specifically to report as soon as he was done. Delay wasn’t acceptable. He stumbled down the dark corridors, his eyes still used to earth’s bright sunshine. Take it slow, it wouldn’t do to fall. Once you’re down they might not let you back up again._

_He headed to the senior demons’ resting area. If he hadn’t been given the instruction to report as soon as he got back he wouldn’t have dared do such a thing. Resting was a dangerous time, a demon was vulnerable when resting. That vulnerability made them vicious. Catch an intruder, maybe a would-be attacker, and they’d have no hesitation but to kill them._

_By the time he arrived at his destination he had developed a sick feeling deep in the pit of his stomach. Along the way he’d felt eyes watching him. Seen the odd demon pointing in his direction. Was this still about the ‘treason’ incident?_

_He’d have to come up with some lie, something to explain his escape. He might have left it too late already. While the mills of God grind slow the rumour mills of Hell spun fast. He could kick himself for not thinking of this sooner. Nature abhors a vacuum. In the absence of facts the rumours would grow._

_Standing in front of the door he again didn’t know what to do. His boss was apparently here, but everyone knew Hastur didn’t have a room, whose room was it then? Should he knock? What if Hastur was resting? He couldn’t disturb him. Then again he couldn’t keep him waiting either._

_Perhaps if he just pushed the door it would open a little by itself. If Hastur was awake he would be seen. Either told to go away or come in. He wouldn’t have to make a choice. In Hell all choices were wrong._

_He pushed the door. It creaked and slowly swung open, not just a crack as he’d intended, but fully open. Inside he could hear a snuffling noise and someone breathing heavily. Was Hastur resting? Perhaps he could just back out now, pretend he hadn't been here, take the punishment for giving his report late. Anything was better than having to walk into that dark room with Satan knows what inside it._

_His heart was thumping and the sick feeling was getting worse. He didn’t know what to do. He dithered on the doorstep now in a genuine panic. What was the least wrong thing to do? The one thing he was sure of was that there was no right choice here._

_A hand grabbed him and pulled him inside before he could take any action either way. The shock of it made him give out a small cry. Damn it, he’d betrayed a weakness. Never let them know you’ve been taken off guard._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Hastur did, in fact, quite often skive off early, although he managed to keep it quiet. On leaving the pits he was pleased to discover lots of places where he could drink heavily and perhaps even dance. Despite being a diligent and serious demon, of hard working and highly sadistic disposition, he enjoyed carousing as much as anyone….so long as his office didn’t find out - a demon has a reputation to maintain after all!
> 
> * “The mills of God grind slow” is an old adage around in Roman times at least and alludes to the slow, but certain, delivery of divine retribution. I’m not sure of the origin of a ‘rumour-mill’ but the idiom is self-explanatory - anyone who knows where it comes from please chip in
> 
> * I was surprised to learn ‘nature abhors a vacuum’ is Aristotelian so I feel justified using it in the historical context (although the reference to paper clips in Ch6 has perhaps already demolished any attempt at historical consistency!).


	15. Alpha Centauri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley needs a break - but he doesn’t go as far as Alpha Centauri in the end

No. He simply couldn't carry on yet. Before the angel could even take a breath he’d shouted “DUCKS” as loudly as he could and buried his head in his hands. If he hid well enough maybe the memories wouldn’t find him this time.

It took a while before he was brave enough to look up. Apart from revealing how upset he had been about the flood there was nothing really new in this part of the story. The angel must have known how upset he was surely?

No, it wasn’t that that made it impossible for him to carry on. It was what happened next. Perhaps he could gloss over it. Maybe skip it altogether. It was integral though, he didn’t think the follow up would make sense if he missed this incident out. His turbulent emotions and subsequent panicked overreaction (was it an overreaction?) couldn’t be adequately explained if he skipped it.

“I need a break” he said instead.

“Certainly my dear, would you like to go out? Go back to the bookshop maybe?”

Crowley shook his head. He needed to be alone. “I’m gonna walk. I need to think about how to do this, how to tell the story without ending up hiding under the desk again. That was ridiculous!”

Aziraphale shook his head “I can quite understand you needed a safe-space dear. I’m not sure under a table in the Ritz is any safer than sat by the fire, but you shouldn’t worry about it. You’ve been very brave to get this far and I respect that. If you need to sit in a wardrobe, or under a table, or go to Alpha Centauri even, I’m still here for you”.

Alpha Centauri! Crowley almost smiled at the memory. He’d built nebulas back in Heaven. Maybe if his memories of Heaven were clearer he could cope better with the ones from Hell. No, that was a stupid idea - if he remembered Heaven more, then that would only make the whole thing worse. He had been an angel, a creature of goodness and light, kind and decent. Nothing like what he had become.

He shook his head. He needed to walk. “I’ll see you back at the bookshop” he threw out before he left. He had to clear his mind. Decide how to tell the story, maybe if he rehearsed it, he could go through with this without breaking down again.

It was just getting dark and the streets were busy with commuters heading home. They didn’t know what was going on in his head. For that small mercy he was grateful.

He headed for the river, taking the Thames Path out towards Canary Wharf. The Tower of London was buzzing with tourists, getting in the way, taking selfies. He’d invented them - or at least he’d told Hell he had. Hadn’t told Hastur, he’d gone over his head. He’d done that a lot, unable to deal with his boss personally by that point.

It had got so bad he couldn’t even talk to him. Hiding from the senior demon as if his life depended on staying undetected, not drawing attention to himself. As *if* his life depended on it? His life *had* depended on it hadn’t it? Potentially. By then he had built a reputation of his own though. Hell's 'lower downs' loved his work. Hastur wouldn't have dared touch him without authorisation. He still felt wary about any encounters.

He pulled his thoughts back. He was nowhere near that part of the story yet. He turned to see Tower Bridge behind him. From the river path the large construct was more impressive than at road level. The lights shone up on the towers, the pointed crenelations imposingly medieval - it was rubbish of course, the edifice was Victorian.

It was dwarfed by the shard now too. The giant modernist spike, higher and more imposing than the old bridge. Times changed. He recalled the shard itself - a huge gleaming glass reminder of progress - cast its shadow on the centuries old gothic cathedral of Southwark. London was all about contrasts. As was his history.

He ploughed on, but before reaching the impersonal office buildings of the Wharf itself he turned off through Limehouse Basin, up the cut and along the river Lea to Stratford. Walking all the time alongside the water. It was surprising how much of London was waterways and parkland - hidden pockets of almost-countryside buried deep within the patchwork of the city.

Stratford was dominated by a shopping centre and the Olympic park. More modernity. The constant clash of old and new, buildings ebbing and flowing over the years. Fires and railways, slum clearances and bombs, all making space for more progress. Progress giving way to conservation and discovery.

Right now the city felt like a physical version of his own mind. Nothing fitted together properly, the new overlaying the old, but never quite obliterating it. London’s Roman walls still stood in places. An amphitheatre buried under newer constructions was now a display for tourists. A medieval pub still plied its trade despite the former river, on whose banks it had stood, having disappeared under new roads.

You could bury the past, build over it, try to hide it, but sooner or later it would find a way out. Like the plague pits uncovered by the diggers of Crossrail, his past was being excavated. The half rotting corpses of Hell were being dragged out into the light. Was this a good idea?

He had to exorcise the ghosts. That made him laugh: a demon carrying out an exorcism was the height of ridiculous, but that was how it felt. He had to get Hell and Hastur out of his system somehow.

The walk had had its effect. The whirling thoughts had slowed somewhat, his legs were tired, he might finally be able to rest. He hadn’t planned what he would say, but suddenly no longer felt the need to. It would be better to let the words come unrehearsed and it would mean he only had to relive the events once, not over and over as he had been doing for months.

His mind felt clearer so he stopped at Stratford International station and caught a train back into town. At Oxford Circus he got off and headed down to Soho, back to the bookshop. Warmth and light and coffee and wine. Snuggle up with an angel and have at least one night away before he headed back to continue the tale.

They did, in fact, wait several days before he felt he could continue. Crowley still hoped that the sharp stabs of memory would recede, that his thoughts would stop buzzing round and round, that he could forget. He’d told part of the story, wasn’t that enough?

He realised that the loop of memory was resetting to the point he’d left off the tale - not going back to the beginning each time. Maybe it was working. With this tangible sign of progress he felt more confident to continue.

They headed off to the Ritz in the morning, the bookshop closed for the day. He was calmer, but knew this would be a hard day. Hopefully it would be worth it - there it was again: ‘hope’. A concept he hadn’t dared consider down in Hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *He might not have gone to Alpha Centauri but the walk outlined is over 9 miles, I’ve walked the entire route, but not in one go. I have included quite a few details of walks in London, I think because I’ve missed central London during lockdown. Knowledge of London isn’t essential to the story, but I enjoyed putting in some little details.
> 
> * The Roman Walls are visible near Barbican and down by Tower Hill stations. The amphitheatre is under Guildhall Art Gallery and ‘Ye Old Cheshire Cheese’ pub, built 1667, stands on Fleet Street where the river fleet once ran… For anyone interested in history!
> 
> * Crossrail - whenever it opens - is a new underground line through central London. Its construction created all sorts of archaeological opportunities, including the discovery of plague pits from 1665, which seemed an appropriate example given Crowley’s mood, but was not the only discovery by a long way.


	16. Looking For Hastur (flashback)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A particularly nasty thing happens while Crowley is looking for his boss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Re ‘particularly nasty’ please read the archive warnings, which are *warnings* for a reason

_After Crowley was pulled inside the room, the door swung shut behind him. The light from the hallway died. He tried to compose himself in the dark, deliberately not struggling. Trying to escape now would only turn this into a game - a cat and mouse game in which he was the mouse. A dead mouse if he wasn’t careful._

_He tried to speak calmly, but his voice came out in a squeak of fear “Your Disgrace”. He was abruptly thrown against the nearest wall. He cried out in pain and surprise. So much for not turning this into a game. He was acting the victim now to a tee - too easily forced into a role he knew would only lead to trouble._

_He felt his collar grabbed and was shoved hard against the wall again. A body pushed against him, pinning him to the rough, damp stone. The figure was considerably shorter than Hastur. Shit, shit, shit. This must be the wrong place. He had no idea who this demon was, no idea how to get out._

_Before he could think of anything beyond the blind panic of his dire situation he felt a hand in his hair. His head was pulled round and a strange demon glared at him angrily. The only light was, in fact, from the other demon’s eyes. They glowed a deep and menacing red as he growled “what do you want?”_

_Crowley almost sobbed with relief. The demon hadn’t killed him straight away. He might actually get out of this alive. He answered quickly, before he had time to change his mind “H..H..Hastur, I’m looking for…H..H..”. He didn’t get any further. A violent slap would have sent him flying, had the hand in his hair not maintained it’s fierce grip._

_Crowley whimpered in pain, again realising his mistake in showing weakness. The strange demon with glowing red eyes gave a grunt of what might have been amusement. “He’s sleeping, but I’m sure I can keep you entertained while you wait. Teach you not to wander into the senior demons' resting area unannounced”. Uh-oh that did not bode well._

_His robe was torn off him, ripping down the back. He felt the cold damp chill against his skin. He didn’t dare move. Trying to resist would only make it worse. The hand in his hair held him still, while the other explored his body, groping him roughly and firmly until it reached the smooth sexlessness between his legs._

_“Make an effort now, there’s a good little toy”._

_He shuddered at the thought of it. He couldn’t, simply couldn’t, make any sort of effort at this point. He was turned abruptly and his head crashed against the wall. A hand grabbed his hip and pulled him into the strange demon, who had clearly made an effort. By the feel of it against his back it was a large one at that._

_He couldn’t have fought the power of the other’s energy successfully even if he’d tried, but he didn’t even try. He wished he had the courage to, but he hadn’t. He was frozen with fear, didn’t dare resist. His body was re-formed according to the other’s wishes. The weight between his legs told him it was male. His ankles were kicked apart and a hand ran up the inside of his thigh. He shuddered at the touch._

_If he stayed still, didn’t fight it, maybe it wouldn’t be too bad. Something wet and slippery began to pour down the crack of his newly moulded backside. The cold, creeping sensation was followed by that groping hand. A finger pushed inside him and he gulped back a sob that threatened to escape him. He must be still, let this happen, try to relax. It was his only chance to get out unhurt… relatively unhurt anyway._

_“Awww, come on little toy. I only want to play”. The growl was soft and menacing, threatening in ways Crowley didn’t want to think about. A second finger was shoved in hard and he couldn’t help but scream this time._

_“That’s better, be a good toy for me” by this time the fingers were pushing in and out in a steady rhythm. He couldn’t help but whimper at the roughness of it, but somewhere inside him it hit something that made him buck back against the other’s hand with the pleasure it elicited._

_Behind him the figure chuckled “oh you’re going to be so much fun to play with aren’t you?”_

_Crowley knew better than to answer that. The fingers were withdrawn and, after a brief fumble, something else pressed against him. “Are you going to ask nicely little toy? Beg for me? I know you want it”._

_The snake-demon sobbed in answer and he was entered hard, feeling hips smashing against him, almost knocking him off his feet. It felt so thick, too much almost, but he was well lubricated. It wasn’t too painful at least. That is, it wasn’t too physically painful, mentally it really hurt._

_Another hard thrust and he felt like he was being skewed by a spear. He screamed in earnest as he was stretched and the pain stepped up a level. The screams only seemed to spur the other demon on and the thrusts began to speed up. He tried so hard to bear the pain of them silently. At least he wouldn’t give his attacker the satisfaction of hearing him squealing in agony throughout the assault._

_The room was suddenly lit with an eerie green light. A sleepy sounding voice asked “Ligur, what you got there?”_

_That was Hastur. Crowley almost forgot himself enough to hope that this would be an end to it. That Hastur would save him. He cursed himself for his stupidity as the strange demon had merely grunted in reply “got myself a little toy. Come ‘ere looking for you apparently” all the while continuing his assault. Clearly he wasn’t going to stop just because Hastur was here._

_Being in the light only made it worse. He could just see Hastur out the corner of his eye, he looked half-asleep still, but he was looking at him, could clearly see him. Being visible to both demons made his skin crawl with embarrassment. He didn’t know what state he had been changed into when the demon behind him had forced him into an effort. Didn’t want to know. He closed his eyes against the relentless thrusts._

_Something in the rhythm changed slightly, had it got gentler? He certainly wasn’t being thrown against the wall each time now. He cautiously tried to look around, only to have his hair pulled hard again._

_The cock invading him was angled slightly and this time it hit whatever it was inside him that sent thrills of arousal through him. He moaned again, then realised his own cock was twitching in response to this treatment. He flushed with shame, then moaned again at the sensation, pushing back into the other demon._

_He heard movement off to one side where his boss had been. Hastur was closer now and spoke again sounding surprised “Crawly! What you doin’ here?”_

_He sobbed at that. How could he possibly answer the question? It must be pretty obvious what he was doing here. He was being raped and increasingly it was looking like he was enjoying it. As his prostate was brushed again he shoved back hard into the other demon, hissing with the intensity of the sensations it evoked._

_What must he look like? The torn robe hung off him, leaving him totally uncovered, his own arousal lewdly displayed, swaying vainly in thin air as this strange demon fucked him hard. At this thought the spot inside him was hit yet again and he let out an involuntarily, lascivious, whine of pleasure._

_He felt hot shame flooding his body. He would not enjoy this. He managed to shift slightly so the treacherous part of his body wasn’t being hit any longer. The strange demon didn’t seem to notice, didn’t seem to even care._

_The rest was at least over quickly. The strange demon pulled him tight and he felt the large cock pulsing inside him. When it was withdraw something hot and slick started dribbling down his legs and he fell to his knees, sobbing in relief and disgust at what had just happened. He curled into a ball and rocked with pain and humiliation._

_“Awww Ligur, that’s Crawly. Y’know - the one I told ya about. What d’ya wanna go and hurt him for? He never even done nuffin”. Hastur sounded annoyed, but Crowley wasn’t really listening, couldn’t listen. He was too busy trying to shut out what had just happened._

_He kept repeating to himself that he’d been here before, he’d got over worse. He didn’t think he was torn or bleeding at least. Although, as with Hastur in the pits, he cringed at the humiliation of his own reactions during the assault. It should have been clear it was against his will, his cries should have been purely in pain, not from pleasure. That this wasn’t the entire truth just made it worse. His sobs continued unabated._

_He felt hands on him again and curled tighter in on himself. A low growling noise started up and he felt hot breath against his cheek. It was followed by a gentle crooning in his ear “oh my poor little poppet, hush now, it’s all over now, hush poppet hush, you’re ok, you're going to be ok, shushhh. Hold on to me now, you’re ok”._

_He was half lifted and grabbed onto the other’s robe instinctively, holding on to him just as instructed. The calming sounds continued and he slowly became aware of the gentle strokes up and down his back too. Such gentleness, such kindness. It was unknown in Hell._

_He looked up into Hastur’s dark eyes and sobbed again. After what felt like forever he was helped to his feet. His robe had been mended and he thought the bruises from being crashed into the wall had been repaired too._

_Hastur had picked up the file on the floor where the junior demon had dropped it on first being pulled into the room. Glancing at the cover he passed it to Crowley._

_“Go along to the office poppet, put this report on my desk and I’ll look at it later. You’ll be ok now”. Hastur smiled at him and gently shepherded him out of the door._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Although Crowley suffers throughout, this is the only ‘stranger-rape’ and the only really violent one too. It is meant to be more or less typical of the sort of thing he has experienced before in Hell though.
> 
> *This is also the only time Crowley is forced into a male ‘effort’


	17. You Think I’m the Victim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley waits for Aziraphale’s reaction, but it isn’t quite what he expects

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *the story is told (mostly) from Crowley's POV so the reflection on his actions/reactions are his own and not meant to be objective.

Crowley glared at Aziraphale, as if daring him to say anything. He was simply sitting there sipping his wine, as if the story of his rape and degradation were nothing more to him than a episode of a TV soap opera.

“Well? Aren’t you going to ask me how I felt or something like that? Isn’t that what therapists do?” Crowley was irritated that he hadn’t seemed to shock the angel. This was one of the more violent parts of the story. If he wasn’t horrified by this then… well then, maybe telling the rest wouldn’t be so bad.

“I’m not going to ask you anything like that. I told you I’m not a therapist - I’ll only ask questions to help you tell the story and to think about it. This process is for you, for your benefit, not mine. The way you tell it makes it clear how you felt anyway - what would my asking more achieve?”

Crowley considered this. He supposed the angel was right. He’d made his reactions, his emotions, abundantly and painfully obvious in the telling. It was almost as if he revelled in them, wallowing in self pity. At least this part of the story made him the victim. He hadn’t done anything wrong and he knew that.

He took a deep breath. “I hadn’t done anything wrong had I?” He asked for reassurance more than anything, and saw the angel shaking his head. No. He’d done nothing wrong. Yet.

He shook his head angrily “it gets worse you know - that isn’t the end of it. There’s a lot worse happened after that!” He drank his wine off in one go and glared at the angel again, until he passed the bottle over and allowed his friend to re-fill the glass.

“You think I’m a victim don’t you? Think none of this was my fault, that I didn’t do anything wrong. That I wouldn’t hurt anyone. Well you gotta remember I’m a demon, demons aren’t nice. I was in Hell and I learned to act like it. In Hell you have to find a way to protect yourself, you can’t just keep on letting things happen to you. They can smell weakness, they know, they always know. They’ll seek you out and destroy you unless you destroy them first. That’s what it’s like”.

There were tears in his eyes as he shouted at the angel. Aziraphale didn’t seem phased by it. He looked at his friend and said softly “I know you’re a demon dear and I’m beginning to understand a little about how Hell worked too. I can’t pretend I’ll ever know what it was like, what you went though, but I promise you I won’t judge. I don’t want to keep reminding you, but I am an angel. We don’t judge - that’s for Her not me”.

Crowley was angry anyway and those words stirred up yet more resentment. “Oh, I suppose it’s fucking ineffable is it? I shouldn’t dare question Her glorious plan - all of this happened for a reason I suppose?”

“Now you know that’s not what I said is it dear?”

He was so patient, so understanding. It was driving Crowley up the wall. Why wasn’t he angry, outraged at what had been done to his friend? Why hadn’t he questioned him when he kept telling him it got worse?

“I did what I had to do angel. What I needed to do to protect myself. It isn’t pretty or *nice* but I had to do something”. Again there was a wobble to his voice. He knew he’d had to do some of it, he just wasn’t sure how much. How much had been forced on him and how much he’d driven things.

“Do you need a break?” The angel was hesitant. He didn’t really think now was the time to break off, Crowley just seemed to be getting lucid. He’d told an awful, horrifying, terrible part of the story, but his mind seemed to have moved on already. As if this incident was only part of the build up.

“Nah, I’ll carry on. If you liked that part, you’ll love this next bit - might even get a kick from it eh?” he attempted to laugh. In Hell they loved it when you showed how weak you were. They got a kick out of watching you fail, become a victim: hurt and humiliated. Hell enjoyed it. You had to stay tough, make light of what happened, treat it as a laugh or they’d do that for you.

Perhaps the angel was enjoying it too. He stopped laughing long enough to add “having fun yet?” and the laughs turned to sobs.

“Crowley dear, try to calm yourself. This isn’t something I’m doing for fun, you know that. I want to help you and to do that you’ll need to trust me”.

At the word trust he almost started laughing again. That someone would talk about trust around him! No-one trusts in Hell. Everyone is out to get you, don’t let your guard down for a moment.

He looked up and caught the angel’s eye. This wasn’t Hell. He could trust. Couldn’t he? Shaking his head, more in sorrow than anything else, he looked to the floor. He was letting Hell get to him again. He had to remember that it was the past. Things were different now.

“Ok angel. I keep warning you, but I guess you can’t help unless I tell you. I only did what I thought I needed to though. You know that. Under other circumstances….”

There were no other circumstances under which he’d have been presented with these options, these choices, and it was a choice wasn’t it?

He was no longer sure. Perhaps the angel would be able to help. Maybe getting someone else’s opinion would helpful. Someone who wasn’t tainted by Hell and its twisted need to hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * I find therapists maddening when they refuse to be shocked by things, not sure if that’s just me. Of course Aziraphale isn’t meant to be qualified and perhaps that shows, he is trying his best!
> 
> * Sorry for yet more portentous hints from Crowley


	18. Why Are You Upset (flashback)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley delivers his report and then isn’t sure what he should do next

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Crowley's feelings/thoughts after Ligur's attack are explored a little and his view of himself and his behaviour in Hell becomes more apparent.

_As Crowley stumbled out of Ligur’s (and Hastur's) room he realised he still had the ‘effort’ he’d been coerced to adopt and rapidly banished it. Something about returning to his asexual state helped him focus. It was ok really. The pain hadn’t been too bad. There had only been one demon involved in the assault. He’d got over worse._

_His acceptance of the comfort and sympathy he received afterwards made him more ashamed than his endurance of the attack. More than endurance. Albeit unwillingly, he’d experienced some pleasure from it. The thought made him shudder._

_Hastur had been there too, had seen him in that state. Then, instead of getting away as quickly as he could, he'd collapsed on the floor. He had shown his weakness so clearly. Shown his boss how pathetic he really was. Cried like a child and grabbed onto him for help, for support. Ridiculous._

_He cursed himself. How could he have just stayed there like that? Clung to his boss, his earlier tormentor, as if he needed him. After the time in the Pits! After his orgasms, his so obvious physical enjoyment of Hastur's attentions, and then this! Clutching on to him as if he enjoyed being a victim, relished his abuse._

_He was finding it hard not to start crying again. Hard to think even. Take a breath. It's over now. He'd recover. There weren’t any physical injuries. It wasn't too bad. He'd had worse. Don't let the pain show. Don't let them see how damaged you are, how broken._

_He shouldn't have let this happen and he shouldn't be so upset by it. He was weak, pathetic. It was no wonder he got abused. It was his own fault. As soon as Ligur touched him he'd whimpered and squealed like a frightened animal. Behaviour like that was virtually asking for it._

_He remembered then that he had literally asked for it in the Pits. He'd wanted it. What would his boss think of him? He was a cowardly little slut: that's what he would think. Pathetic. He disgusted even himself. He hadn't even tried to fight._

_He was getting dangerously close to losing it now. He needed to control himself. Take another breath. Bury the hurt. Concentrate on getting away without breaking down again. Ligur would have done it anyway. He couldn’t have stopped him. Don’t think about the Pits. The junior demon managed to get his thoughts under control as he reached his destination._

_The office was empty and dark. The only light came from the day’s third hour-candle, nearly halfway burned, in the corridor outside. He slunk in, not wanting to make any more light, fearful that he might draw attention to himself. He didn’t want to be seen now. Tear streaked face, shaking hands, clearly upset. He looked weak, and the weak were preyed upon in Hell._

_The report deposited on his boss’s desk he was free to depart. Or was he? Hastur hadn’t specifically said what he should do after the report had been delivered. He just said he’d look at it later. Did that mean he was meant to stay? He wasn’t sure._

_In Hell all choices were wrong. Would it be worse for him if he stayed or if he went? He tried to think. If Hastur expected to find him here and he was gone, there would be trouble. Whereas if he was an unwanted presence the most that would happen was he’d be told off for not resting properly and sent out._

_He decided to stay and sat at his desk, awaiting the worst. In the silent office he watched the hour-candle burning down and thought about earth. All those people. How could She? And the angel had just watched - at the thought of his opposite number a warm feeling spread through him: The Angel… His Angel._

_He stopped his thoughts, frightened that someone might overhear them. If they realised his affection for The Angel that would be an end to trips to earth. Hell didn’t tolerate affection._

_It was many hours before Hastur arrived. In the interim he’d fallen asleep. The trauma had finally caught up with him and his brain had shut down in self-defence. Too much to think about, too many emotions to process._

_He hadn’t waited to see the Rain Bow - a promise not to drown Her subjects again. That was like a promise in Hell - I’ll do this terrible thing to you, but you must be grateful because I’ve said I won’t do it again. It was abuse pure and simple. No, not pure, nothing could ever be pure again… Except maybe his angel._

_He was shaken awake in a not too violent manner. His eyes snapped open and he instinctively tried to jump back. What had he been thinking of? Falling asleep in Hell, making himself so vulnerable, such an easy target. He tensed to deal with his new attacker. If it was another powerful demon he didn’t stand a chance. He sobbed at the thought of another assault so soon after the last one._

_“Steady now poppet. You’re safe here. I’m not going to hurt you. Sit down”. Hastur. The sob turned into one of relief. Then he remembered the events earlier and cringed. He was no doubt to be punished for his presumption in entering the room where his boss had been resting. He shouldn’t have gone, clearly the report could have waited._

_He wasn’t sure what the punishment was for disturbing a senior demon at their rest. It might not be too bad, certainly not as bad as an interrogation for treason. Remembering his instruction he sat abruptly and heard a hum of approval. At least the Duke didn’t seem too angry with him._

_Hastur sat on the desk and, looking down at him, said “that’s it poppet, you relax”._

_Crowley immediately tensed. He didn’t know what to make of the instruction and was suspicious. He did try to obey, he really did, but he simply couldn’t relax. He whimpered in fear. He was already in trouble, this insubordination could only make it worse._

_“What’s the matter poppet?” The question was put in a soft, curious voice with no sign of anger. The red-haired demon looked up and into those dark pupils again. Having once made eye contact he realised he couldn’t look away. He’d been told never to look away. He was trapped._

_He sat mutely, unable to frame a reply. How could his boss ask what the matter was after what had just happened? Surely he knew. How was he supposed to answer? Suddenly he thought he’d worked it out. This was a trick, a way to trap him into criticising his attacker. If he complained about his treatment by a senior demon he would be punished for it._

_He steeled himself to answer. “Nothing's the matter your disgrace. I’m sorry. I’ll try to relax”. He attempted a smile, noticing with mild irritation that his hair had lengthened again and his chest swelled slightly with the faint stirrings of a bosom. Why did his body keep doing this?_

_“Don’t worry about Ligur. He knows you’re mine now. He won’t touch you again without my permission”._

_Although he thought the words were meant to be reassuring, Hastur’s assumption of ownership and the implied threat that he could, at any time, give Ligur ‘permission’ to do it again, made him sob. He tried to hide the sound. He shouldn’t appear weak, don’t give his boss an opening. Never let Hell see you’re afraid of something - they’ll only do it all the more._

_A stray tear ran down his face and was brushed away by the senior demon. He managed not to flinch at the touch. “You’re not upset over that are you? You’re stronger than that, must’ve happened a thousand times. What’s this really about?”_

_The words ‘a thousand times’ made him flush with shame. Of course it was an exaggeration, but not too far off. He reckoned it was hundreds of times at least. Not quite as many as a thousand, but that didn't make the reminder hurt any less. Sooner or later it would be a thousand times._

_He had been forced to endure similar assaults so many times already. It wasn’t new. He was abused more than any of his peers. Partly it was his looks. He couldn’t help the fact he hadn’t been deformed by the fall like so many of the others, but he cursed his luck. If only he’d been hideous maybe he’d have been spared much of the abuse._

_If only he had the courage to do something about it. If he could just allow himself to be deformed by the pit demons in their torments cells perhaps it wouldn’t happen so much. He was so afraid of being spoiled, not being able to get to earth. He’d chosen to be abused as the price he had to pay. He was a coward._

_He realised he hadn’t answered when Hastur grabbed his jaw roughly and pulled his face close. He was drowning in those eyes now, they filled his vision. The demon’s energy threatened to overwhelm him. It was strong and cloying, buzzing discordantly in his ears. His body reacted in self-defence. He was now voluptuously feminine._

_It was then that Hastur kissed him. He gave a squeak of surprise and almost resisted. Luckily his common sense prevailed and he allowed his mouth to open and a tongue to feel its way in. He was too frightened to let his eyes close. He mustn’t look away._

_The senior demon did, however, let his eyelids flutter shut. He also hummed gently into the kiss. It was delicate and cautious, unlike any kiss Crowley had ever had in Hell before. Unlike any kiss he’d ever had before. The gentleness and kindness behind it warmed him and he forgot to be suspicious. After a few seconds he relaxed into his boss’s touch and Hastur pulled back smiling._

_“That’s better isn’t it my little poppet? Now suppose you tell me why you’re all het up like this eh?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This chapter can probably be taken as the start of a kind of ‘relationship’. Hastur has assumed ‘ownership’ of his underling and appears to be showing kindness... of a sort anyway...


	19. Ineffable Rain Bow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some reflections on the ineffable plan and the aspects that make Aziraphale uncomfortable, while the demon stalls for time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *More of Crowley’s reflections too, but also time for Aziraphale to think about things a little. I’ve always wondered how the angel managed to square certain events with his strong belief in ‘doing the right thing’ and obviously kind persona. Ineffable or not it’s hard to understand why he wouldn’t doubt just a little.

"Pretty pathetic eh?" Asked Crowley bitterly. In the retelling of his retreat from Ligur’s lair his sense of personal failure had come back to him. How could he have shown such affection, such reliance and need, to his boss? It made him cringe to remember it.

The angel was a little confused. "No, no. Not at all dear. You were upset, it's understandable..."

Crowley laughed. "Oh yeah, I was 'upset' alright. That's what's so pathetic. I should have been used to it. Should have been able to deal with it. Without... without collapsing like that, clinging onto him, then falling asleep! And finally, for Satan’s sake: inviting him to kiss me. It's no wonder he thought what he did".

The angel considered his answer carefully. He realised he was treading in deep water and didn’t want to go too far too fast "I don’t think you invited him…” He saw the others’ scepticism so tried another tack “….what did he think?"

Aziraphale watched his companion flush. He wasn't sure whether it was anger or embarrassment and didn't want to use any celestial energy to try to find out. Instead he waited, unsure whether he’d said he wrong thing.

"I'll tell you the rest and maybe you'll see. Maybe you’ll agree with him". The angel had started shaking his head as if to negate the idea and Crowley was suddenly angry. "You didn't know me back then. You don't know what it was like, what I was like". He scowled deeply.

"No dear, you're only telling me about it now”. The angel reminded himself he was meant to be neutral here. He was support for his friend, helping him get the story out, that’s all. He wasn’t meant to have an opinion, certainly not take sides or disagree with him. He didn’t want to do anything that made it more difficult for his demon to talk, even if remaining neutral was hard on him personally.

Aziraphale sounded genuinely upset and Crowley calmed down. He’d not really told the angel much yet had he? He knew Ligur’s attack wasn’t his fault, that realistically there hadn’t been anything he could have done to prevent it. However, this was the point that things started to get more confused. The point from which he could, possibly, have changed things. If he'd acted differently then what would have happened?

His mind raced ahead and he remembered the conversation he’d had with Hastur, why he’d been so ‘het up’ as his boss had put it. “You won’t like this bit angel” he warned Aziraphale grimly. “You know why I was really upset and it had nothing to do with Hell for once. Your precious Rain Bow!” he snorted his disgust.

“It was hardly mine now was it dear? I trusted in the plan then”.

It was simply put. Crowley missed the past tense though and was immediately angry again. “Oh the blessed plan eh? The plan to murder children. The plan to end the world, or not as the case may be. It’s all so bloody ineffable, we’re not even meant to question it. Oh, yeah, you believe in the plan, it’s ‘ineffable’. Well I believe in Hell and pain and suffering and they’re a lot more tangible and a blessed sight more believable too!”

Aziraphale bore this tirade passively. He wasn’t here to argue with the demon. He didn’t want him to think he was defending Her either though. “You know what happened to those who questioned Crowley. We had to believe.... or would you rather I’d joined you down in Hell?” It was a fair point, but it pained him to make it.

Her plan. Her humans. His boss. All kindness and light and gentleness - then with the rebellion the demons had been punished. The angels had, by and large, thought this fair punishment. The rebels had tried to overthrow Her, many of the angels had been personally injured in the battle too. Some form of punishment had seemed just.

However, it wasn’t just the demons was it? Adam and Eve thrown out of the garden to make their own way. Her expecting already - go forth and multiply - at least they’d had the sword. He still wasn’t sure whether giving them the sword was the right thing to do, but had decided it couldn’t have been the wrong thing either, so it would probably be alright.

Maybe there were no absolute rights and so no absolute wrongs either. The thought was a little disturbing to the angel. He could square the banishment from Eden as part of the plan, but he wasn’t sure about everything that had happened. It was all so muddled.

His mind moved on, then there had been the flood of course. There were other incidents that made him uncomfortable too - Sodom and Gomorrah, the plagues of Egypt, poor Job and his boils. Luckily She seemed to have calmed down in later years, but the early memories still troubled him. How was it fair? If it was truly ineffable he’d never know of course.

He sighed - it was as Crowley had said: he hadn’t questioned the plan.

The demon had calmed down and saw the look of pain on the angel’s face. He hastened to reassure. He couldn't alienate his only friend. “It’s ok, really, we’re a long way past that now aren’t we? Don’t even know if there is a plan any more!”

Aziraphale had smiled at that “well, if there is, you certainly can’t deny it’s ineffable”. Crowley laughed. The angel was right - he couldn’t deny that.

He still stalled, suggesting room service. Food and coffee - the wine had started to taste bitter and unpleasant. He wanted something sweeter. They ordered a huge pot of coffee and one of hot chocolate, together with cake and scones and jam.

He spent a long time spreading butter on half of a scone before adding a dollop of jam and a blob of cream. Then put it down on the plate to consider it. He wasn’t sure he wanted to eat now. It had been an impulse suggestion and, now he thought about it, maybe it had simply been a suggestion he knew the angel would agree to. The scones were ‘delectable’ apparently.

“If you’re not going to eat that…” Aziraphale began, looking at the delicate scone, drowned in cream and jam.

“help yourself angel” Crowley said handing him the plate.

“No dear, that’s not quite what I meant… although I could be tempted!” He took the plate and sighed happily. Before he picked it up though, he gave the demon a meaningful look.

Crowley hesitated a second, but he knew what lay behind that look. His delaying tactics had been rumbled. Time to carry on.

“Oh alright then, I’ll get on with it. You won’t like it though….” he tailed off remembering the rest of the incident. It wasn’t really earth or the Rain Bow he was talking about now was it? He was getting into the less salubrious parts of the story. The more confused parts too.

Take a deep breath and get it over with, once the initial degradation has been uncovered maybe he could move on. Not that it would get much easier as he progressed, quite the opposite really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I’ve never been clear on whether scones with cream and jam should be buttered, does the cream replace the butter as a dairy element? The exact order of the cream/jam combination is also contentious - Cornwall and Devon may go to war about it at some point…


	20. An Offer (flashback)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley is upset and Hastur listens…. then Crowley panics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Reference to dead kids again - as part of the description of the aftermath of the flood and not particularly graphic.
> 
> * Nothing particularly explicit happens, but there are explicit sexual references.

_Crowley lost his overriding sense of suspicion and fear after that kiss. He couldn’t resist the chance to share what was on his mind. With the separation from his peers it had been a long time since he had been able to talk to anyone openly._

_He told Hastur about his trip to earth. About the flood. About the drowned children and the Rain Bow. He was still shaky from Ligur’s attack and, recalling the awful aftermath of the flood on top of that trauma, made him cry all over again. Heaven were meant to be the kind ones. How could an angel stand by and let this happen? Say it was ‘ineffable’, like that made it ok._

_The demon had held it together up on earth, not wanting to upset his angel by ‘harping on’ about the murder of children. Wanting to look cool. Keep his sang-froid - snakes were actually cold blooded after all. In his persona as ‘a demon of the world’ he’d said, in what he hoped was a neutral voice, ‘more like the sort of thing my lot would do’ and shrugged it off like it didn’t matter. Down in Hell he couldn’t keep it up._

_Hastur listened silently. Always staring directly into his eyes, watching his tears form, and occasionally brushing one away. He made sympathetic tutting noises as Crowley explained about the corpses, about the crocodiles, about the tiny bodies of the innocent little kids floating among the debris. He seemed enthralled by his underling’s apparent trust in him, his treatment of his boss as a confidant._

_It took a while for the story to pour itself out. Crowley tried, initially, to stem the flow. Even in his distressed state he realised dimly his choice of listener was somewhat unusual. However, he felt hypnotised by those eyes and half-suffocated by the senior demon’s powerful aura. He sat so close, stroking his face, gazing into his eyes._

_At last Crowley finished and, as he stuttered to a stop, he remembered to be afraid again. What was he thinking showing weakness like that to a senior demon? Showing he cared about the humans? He’d likely never get to see earth again now. Never see The Angel again either._

_At least he’d managed to gloss over that part. He’d ‘tricked’ one of Heaven’s agents into talking. He’d ‘overheard’ part of a conversation between some angels. Nothing more. He certainly hadn’t chatted away amiably with one of Heaven’s representatives, all the while horrified at the plan to murder the innocent._

_“You’re such a sensitive little thing aren’t you poppet” was Hastur’s amused comment on this outpouring of grief. He patted his shoulder in an affectionate way too. Reassuring, comforting. What was he up to? There must be an end-game, he just needed to figure out what it was._

_His boss showed no sign of leaving. Sitting too close, arm now fully around his subordinate’s shoulders. Crowley knew he mustn’t look away, but it was getting too intense. He felt in free-fall, unsure of what was happening. Fear was the only thing that grounded him, it chilled him and rooted him to the spot. He had no idea what he was meant to do, how he should react to this apparent kindness and feigned concern._

_“Still can’t relax eh?” Hastur’s voice was deep and gravelly. To Crowley’s panicked mind it was starting to sound impatient too. He must be getting irritated at the lack of response. That meant he was waiting for a response. He just couldn’t work out what it was. If he got it wrong he would suffer._

_Acting on instinct, he took a chance and moved in to kiss his boss again. It caused a surprised hum, followed by a soft moan as the snake-demon took the lead this time. His forked tongue entered the other’s mouth, tasting ashes and blood. He explored carefully, remembering to add his own soft moans. His curvy, female body, pressed up against the senior demon._

_The plan seemed to be working. Hastur was evidently enjoying the contact, enjoying the exploring tongue. He felt a hand at the back of his neck, pulling him into a more intense kiss. Their tongues met and this time he gave a genuine moan of pleasure._

_This sort of thing, an intimacy without violence, without pain, simply didn't happen in Hell. He finally relaxed. He'd got it right, this was what was expected of him; and it wasn't terrible. He just needed to make sure he continued to please, didn't mess this up. He'd be ok then._

_His hands moved almost of their own accord to tug at his boss’s robe. When he couldn’t find an entrance he insinuated a hand up under the hem, stoking the smoothed scars on the senior demon’s thigh. His own robe he simply ‘disappeared’, no time to undress himself, he was on a roll, this was clearly working._

_He worked his hand upwards and brushed his superior’s half-erect penis. A warmth flooded him, not of arousal, but at satisfaction that he’d figured it out correctly. He wouldn’t be punished now. The hand on his shoulder slipped down and he was pulled up by the waist, pulled tight into the body of the senior demon._

_They’d been kissing all this while, but now Hastur pulled back to gaze into the red-head’s eyes once more. Crowley worked his hand around his boss’s cock and moved it cautiously up and down the shaft. He was rewarded with a hiss of pleasure from Hastur. Again he felt himself gripped tightly and kissed with real passion._

_Then he lost his hold on his boss's cock. He was momentarily horrified at the slip. Would he suffer for this? Why had he let go?_

_The other demon didn’t seem to notice though, just continuing the kiss, holding his subordinate tighter and closer to his body. Hands roamed round his soft feminine curves, kneaded the rounded backside, holding him firmly. Hastur groaned as Crowley again began to work his hand on that hot, thick cock. His boss kissed the red-head’s neck, breathing in the scent of the junior demon’s skin and hair._

_Crowley heard him muttering into his neck “so impatient aren’t you my little poppet? Can’t wait for me. You really want this eh?”_

_The words made him freeze. It was exactly what Hastur had said in the Pits. Was this to be a repeat? Would he use a knife? He forced himself to relax out of the moment of tension and fear. He must make himself amenable, let his boss take what he wanted. It was more than his life was worth to resist._

_He murmured back, in as near an echo of Hastur’s lustful muttering as he could manage, “oh yes, yes your disgrace, I can’t wait”. He couldn’t hold back the slight wobble in his voice at the lie. He could wait. He could wait until the end of the world and he still wouldn’t want this._

_He was shoved back roughly, losing his footing and falling heavily to the floor. A light of real anger blazed in Hastur’s eyes “don’t lie to me” he snarled._

_Crowley was too shocked to say anything. Since when did senior demons worry about whether their chosen victim wanted to participate? How could he expect him to want this? Perhaps it was just that the lie wasn’t convincing enough. He must try harder, but what should he do?_

_He was paralysed with the terror of it. A senior demon looming over him, looking so angry, feeling so powerful. The aura washed over him, around him, made him feel so weak and so vulnerable. He couldn’t have defended himself even if he’d been able to move. He cringed waiting for the blow._

_Instead of an assault he saw the other’s expression soften. He was grabbed firmly by the arm and pulled to his feet. What was going on? Perhaps he’d been given a second chance. This time he would do better, be more believable. He stepped towards his superior, looking up into those huge black pupils, trying to recapture the intimacy._

_Hastur stepped back, away from Crowley’s attempt to insinuate himself into his arms. The snake-demon nearly panicked at this. Composing his thoughts he spoke in a low, seductive tone “I do want you, and you want me too don’t you? Please, whatever you want, however you want it, please”._

_He allowed himself a lustful whine at the second ‘please’. He even leant a little demonic influence to the words. He knew it would have no effect, but hoped the supernatural attempt at seduction would be detected and help convince his boss he really wanted him._

_It almost worked. He could see Hastur wavering, feel the lust rolling off him. He pulled the senior demon back into his embrace and murmured softly “please fuck me, I want you so much, I’m so wet for you, please”. He almost lost himself in the role, nearly convinced himself that this was a lover. He felt the slick of his own juices, he really was wet._

_Then something unexpected happened. Hastur pulled back again. He didn’t look angry though. The performance must have been enough to convince him. He snapped a finger and Crowley felt his robe reappear. The snake-demon had whined in almost genuine disappointment._

_Then he really panicked. If he wasn’t to be fucked then what was going to happen to him? It was certain to be worse. In Hell nothing got better. He needed to do something urgently. In dismay and terror at what might happen if he failed, he tried one last time._

_He attempted to portray a needy arousal that made him filthier and more graphic as he got more and more desperate. He pleaded with his boss, genuinely needing him to respond, not do anything worse. “Please, however you want to use me, any hole, I’m yours, please just fuck me, as rough as you want and as hard, please, I want you to fuck me, please, I need you”._

_Chuckling Hastur said “oh my pretty little poppet, I’ll have you soon. I’ll fill every hole you’ve got if that’s what you want, my needy little thing, but all in good time. You’re so impatient little one! I can’t take advantage of you when you’re still so upset, now can I?”_

_The question confused him. Advantage was what Hell always took. Anything they could take they did. They always found a way, a weakness, and then they took advantage. He’d been begging Hastur to do it too. He thought that’s what the other wanted. Had he got it wrong yet again?_

_Snapping out of his gentle, lustful mood, Hastur had spoken sternly. “You’ll have to wait poppet. Don’t worry though. I’ll remember, remember how you wanted me so much you begged. I’ll remember every word”. He grinned happily, looking really pleased with himself, then left._

_Once the senior demon had departed Crowley took stock. What had been the point of that? He hadn’t been handed a punishment, hadn’t been hurt, nothing had happened. He couldn’t see how Hastur’s game was to be played out, why had his boss looked so pleased? What had changed? Realisation dawned on him. Things had changed. What had Hastur said? ‘I’ll remember every word’._

_And what words had he used? He flushed with shame as he recalled them. He’d humiliated himself, begged in an all too convincing way. Actually persuaded the senior demon he was genuinely desperate to be violated in whatever way he saw fit. Hastur would remember that and hold him to it. He sobbed at the thought of it. What had he got himself into? What had he offered?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Hastur tasted of ash even before he started smoking, perhaps that was why he took it up. All demons taste a little different and Hastur just happens to aste of ashes and blood .


	21. Manipulation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the angel and the demon talk through events and ask some questions - Crowley also gives some background information on Hell and indulges in a bit of foreshadowing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *There is a fair amount of introspection and Aziraphale tries his hand at asking questions. Although I’m not sure whether they’re the right sort of questions to ask, I think they help the story along.

Crowley could see Aziraphale’s look of confusion and responded defensively. “Isn’t it obvious? Ligur asked me to beg and then Hastur made me do it. It was clearly deliberate. He was playing with me, it was a game to him. He must have known what I would do. Why else would he force the issue?”

The angel was still confused. He said hesitantly “didn't you say Hastur was asleep when Ligur began his attack?”

The demon scowled and flushed. He had indeed thought Hastur had been asleep. Less thought and more knew really. He couldn’t have heard Ligur’s nasty little ask. He didn’t want to admit it though so refused to speak or make eye contact.

After an uncomfortable silence he shouted “yeah, alright, he was asleep. He must have known Ligur would say that though, must have guessed. Why else would he force me to beg for him?”

The angel carefully didn’t say anything. In Crowley’s telling of the story Hastur hadn’t actually forced him to do anything. It had been him who had decided that’s what he ought to do, all by himself.

Aziraphale knew that he didn’t understand Hell, probably never would. He couldn’t judge the actions of a demon stuck in Hell. He’d only been there so briefly for the trial, couldn’t even imagine how it felt to be stuck there for centuries.

Given Crowley’s state of mind and Hastur’s undoubted evilness, he couldn’t say his demon had been wrong in his conclusion. Maybe that sort of thing happened in Hell a lot - but hadn’t Crowley said senior demons didn’t usually care what their underlings felt?

Crowley had been silent too. He wanted to believe his words. It was the way he wanted it to be, the way that he had told the story to himself all these centuries. It made sense. Hastur had forced him, it was part of a game, he’d been manipulated. Yes - that was the word.

“He manipulated me!” the demon added sulkily.

“Yes, from what you’ve said that seems a reasonable observation. Why do you think he did it?” A mild inquiry, gently made. Aziraphale didn’t want to push anything. He was, however, still confused - had Hastur intended to make Crowley react like this, was his behaviour really just a move in ‘a game’?

The demon looked up at those words, surprised. In Hell forcing an advantage on someone else was an end in and of itself. Senior demons played with their underlings just for the fun of seeing them terrified by it. Humiliation of those weaker than you was just something to pass the time. It was a nasty game played out over and over, there didn’t need to be a reason.

He shrugged. Thinking about what happened, how it played out, he did wonder. Hastur had done him a favour in saving him from a treason charge, then, instead of demanding repayment, he’d sent him to earth. Healed him, and then sent him to earth no less.

After that he’d comforted him after Ligur attacked him and ensured it wouldn’t happen again. Then he’d listened to his stories about earth and turned down his attempt to repay that apparent kindness with physical favours, claiming it was because his junior was ‘upset’.

On the other hand…..

He’d tortured, abused and fucked him in the Pits. Forced him into unwanted, degrading orgasms while he did it. He only healed the wounds he himself had inflicted and cursed. Finally, when he sent him to earth, it had separated him from his colleagues, caused them to despise him.

He hadn’t tried to stop Ligur’s attack either. Only promised it wouldn’t happen again ‘without his permission’, that was a nasty little add-on and no mistake. Listening to him whine about how awful the flood had been could have been a kindness, but he'd stayed there afterwards until he induced Crowley into a panicked offer of sexual favours.

In the telling of the story the snake-demon realised a pattern was emerging. Something awful happened, then Hastur helped or comforted him. After that he’d feel like he should be grateful and repay his boss in some way. That couldn’t be coincidence could it? It was too obviously a pattern. If only he could find the start of it, prove it was all a trick and that he had nothing to be grateful for.

“How do I know the treason charge was even real? Maybe Hastur invented it!” He threw out suddenly. If that had been fake then the whole thing came crashing down. He wouldn’t have owed Hastur anything, it would prove it had all been a game.

“How do you know?” was the angel’s response. Typical for a therapist - they never answered questions, only asked them.

Crowley sighed. It was a conspiracy theory he’d held onto for a while. If Hastur had manufactured the charges then he had had no need to feel grateful. If he had no need to feel grateful then he could be angry. Being angry was a nice clean emotion, very unlike what he actually felt. If he could just be angry it would be easier to deal with.

However, even if he could convince himself that Hastur would go to all that trouble, he knew the theory wasn’t true. He reluctantly admitted this. “The paperwork, the confession that named me. It came from the offices of Loyalty and Justice, not the Pits. The demon who made it was in their custody at the time. Hastur’s influence didn’t extend that far, it had to be genuine”.

Aziraphale didn’t understand “Loyalty and Justice dear?” Even the words sounded wrong for Hell.

The demon laughed at the other’s confusion. The idea that someone hadn’t heard of Loyalty and Justice! That someone could be so ignorant of the worst Hell had to offer. Was it even worth trying to talk to the angel when he didn’t understand the basics?

Yes, it was worth it. He wanted his friend to understand. It was only if he knew the worst Hell had to offer that he had any chance of gaining an understanding of what he himself had been driven to. He tried to order his thoughts, use a reference the angel would understand.

“They were like the secret police I guess - imagine the Gestapo or the Stasi, the KGB under Stalin even, and then multiply it by a million. You’d choose the Pits over them any day - it would be worth a confession just to get out of their clutches and down to the cells. At least the pit demons had due process. They held trials, you could be acquitted even. Oh they used torture, but it was part of a process, they had rules, they even thought it was fair!”

The thought of fairness in Hell made him snort with laughter. The pit demons were either very naive or deliberately deluded themselves, like any process involving routine torture could ever be fair. Loyalty and Justice didn’t even pretend to be fair though, their torments were political.

He carried on, trying to explain in a way the angel would follow. He needed him to understand this aspect of Hell’s organisation or he wouldn’t understand the rest. “The only loyalty in Hell is to Satan angel. You gotta understand that. And he took it very seriously. Absolute loyalty, without question. Not all demons were happy with this, too like Her rule upstairs. There were rebellions early on against Satan’s rule. I mentioned Hastur had been involved in the questioning and trials”. He shuddered at the memories that evoked.

“But there were trials angel, evidence, some demons even got found not guilty. Well, not guilty of treason anyway - all demons are guilty of something. After that Satan created a force worse than the pit demons, not concerned with any pretence of fairness. He used them to ‘disappear’ troublesome demons without the need for evidence or proof. If Loyalty and Justice wanted you out of the way then you didn’t stand a chance”.

The angel nodded, still slightly confused. He’d thought the Pits were the most feared place in Hell, that there was something worse…. He got the importance of it in the context of what Crowley had just told him though. “So Hastur didn’t fake the charges against you?”

“No, and he didn’t fake being tormented for me either. I know that, you only have to look at what happened later with Brontes….”

He was interrupted “you didn’t answer my first question - why do you think Hastur manipulated you like this? You’ve said yourself he could force you to do practically anything he wanted. Why did he want your agreement?”

“Make it more humiliating I guess”. He shrugged. It might be true. The other possibility was something that ate away at him. He didn’t want to say it, but wasn’t that the whole point? Get the story out.

“I sometimes thought he actually liked me, y’know? It’s so messed up, but everything in Hell is messed up. Things always get perverted, twisted round into something sordid and nasty. He was abusive, but relationships are always abusive in Hell and maybe he actually did want it to be a 'relationship', not just abuse and rape. It could be this was the closest thing… the closest to affection a demon like Hastur could ever get. I’ve thought it might be, anyway”.

There, he’d said it. He didn’t think he’d ever admit that much out loud. He saw Aziraphale was nodding as if he understood. Crowley was suddenly angry - how dare his angel take Hastur’s side? He hadn’t been nice. It couldn’t be true. It had to be a game.

“You don’t know” he snarled, glaring angrily at the angel “you wait, you wait until you’ve heard more, see what you think then. He’s evil through and through. Whatever I did, I didn’t have a choice - understand? It wasn’t my fault. He manipulated me, he made me do it!”

“I’m not here to judge Crowley. I’m only interested in what you think. If you say he manipulated you, forced you into doing something, then I believe you. I’m not going to argue with you….. All I want to know is if that is what you think?”

Again with the bloody questions! “Yes I do. He’s evil, so anything he did was evil too. There are no good motives in Hell. Ultimately everything is done for your own advantage, preferably at someone else’s expense. He can’t have really wanted….. he must have known I’d never want…. he must have known I’d never be his willingly. He must have known. He must”.

This was getting silly he sounded like a child repeating ‘he must’, ‘he must’ over and over. He took a deep breath to calm himself and collect his thoughts.

“I felt I had no choice at the time. Sex was the only thing I could offer him and in Hell you have to offer something. I can’t say he physically forced me, but he did manipulate me. He ought to have known it was coerced….but, well, Hastur didn’t feel the same way about torments as I did, oh he’d scream and squeal and beg them to stop, but he was already disfigured. He had nothing more to lose. He’d have taken the torments every time and never thought about offering himself. So maybe he did think I really wanted him. That I really enjoyed….”

The demon tailed off.

“So you did what you thought you had to and you think Hastur may have misinterpreted?” The angel had just articulated what had been at the back of his mind for centuries. Now he heard it put like that it suddenly it didn’t seem too bad.

He smiled “yeah, I think so. Maybe anyway. He certainly took a lot of flack for me - like I said, the thing with Brontes…” he tailed off again.

Aziraphale prompted him “so what did happen ‘with Brontes’, and who was Brontes?”

“Brontes was Hastur’s replacement in the Pits, but there’s quite a lot happened before that. I can skip ahead if you like?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No, you tell the story in your own way - I don’t want you to miss anything out if you think it’s relevant”.

Crowley sighed, he knew he had to tell the whole thing in order, it was no good skipping bits. He composed himself to pick up the story again. At least this was another bit he could tell without talking about Hastur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * The concept of the ‘Loyalty and Justice’ force is from my ‘Twelve Year Ago’ story, although it isn’t the central theme in that either. The name is short for ‘The Demon’s Commissariat for Infernal Affairs and the Promotion of Loyalty and Justice’, which gives away its obviously Soviet style roots: the precursor to the KGB was called the “People's Commissariat for Internal Affairs”. They were a very nasty bunch of people indeed. Crowley has set out everything you need to know about Loyalty and Justice for the purposes of this story.


	22. An Error (flashback)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is jumpy and paranoid after his recent experiences and it inevitably leads to trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This chapter has a little about how Hell works, but is mainly scene setting for later on. It covers how Crowley’s relationship with his colleagues has broken down and gives some insight to his state of mind.

  
_Nothing happened for weeks. Crowley was on edge constantly, even more so than usual. The monotony of the work carried on. His colleagues were still standoffish, even worse than before. He hadn’t really understood why. Surely they'd got past the 'treason' incident by now?_

_Then he caught the tale end of a conversation that mentioned his name. He turned abruptly and saw one of his fellow demons - hair grown out in auburn curls, long eyelashes fluttering as he ran a hand down his body and murmured ‘oh, your disgrace’ in an effeminate, seductive tone. The demons had clearly decided this was what was behind his escape from the Pits and his posting up on earth._

_A thrill of horror ran through him. Had anyone overheard him when he’d ostensibly been alone in the office with his boss? The things he’d said to Hastur that night made him cringe. He’d comforted himself that at least no-one else would find out. Only his boss could have told anyone and his boss didn’t talk to underlings._

_Now he was paranoid that they hadn’t been alone in the office after his return to earth. That one of his fellows had heard. Had busily spread the story of him begging to be fucked in the crudest terms... and then being turned down. Were they all laughing at him behind his back?_

_After that it didn’t matter that his colleagues wouldn’t look him in the eye. He couldn’t look at them either._

_Hell was cruel. There was no camaraderie, no understanding. Hell was about jealousy and hate and fear. They’d look for any opening, anything they could hurt you with. If someone else was suffering then maybe you’d escape. Divide and rule. Pitting one demon against another. Never trust, always begrudge an advantage. No-one was lucky. There was always something sinister and unpleasant behind it._

_The pit demons might have talked. They were probably watching him and Hastur through the viewing windows - torments in Hell were entertainment as well as punishment. He’d once heard they sold the rights to access - ringside tickets to someone else’s misery._

_Had that happened to him? Had someone been stood there watching him shudder to a climax as his boss assaulted him?_

_He decided that would be the lesser of the two evils. He’d rather have been seen physically cooperating in the context of a torments session, than cravenly begging when no torture was being threatened._

_That was the thing that preyed on his mind. The time in the office there had been no explicit threat. The senior demon had seemed patient and indulgent, listening to his pathetic whining about the death of human children without so much as a sneer. He’d panicked and reacted to a danger that may not even have been there._

_At the time it had seemed so clear. His boss was impatient, disgusted by his weakness after Ligur's attack, scornful of his emotional reaction to the flood. He must have wanted something. He can't have just wanted him to 'relax', have been checking he was ok. Surely? But what if he had?_

_He'd heard rumours of demons forming alliances, banding together for protection. Satan called them plots and came down hard on those involved, but it did happen. Perhaps Hastur had been trying to recruit him, then, instead of taking the hint, he'd thrown himself at his boss. No wonder he'd been turned down._

_He tried to dismiss this thought. Hastur had assaulted him in the Pits, kissed him in the office. He’d started it. Crowley had only reacted to it. His boss seemed so pleased when he offered him physical favours, not turned down exactly, more postponed for a time more to his boss's liking._

_Yes, that was more likely than a plot. Hastur had wanted something. He wouldn’t dole out kindness and comfort unless he was getting something out of it would he? He couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to it than simple physical favours. He hoped there was, otherwise he had to deal with being turned down. Turned down by a pit demon! The thought was almost as humiliating as the offer itself._

_The fear was eating him from the inside out. Partly it was the squirming embarrassment at what may or may not have been seen or overheard. Partly it was the anticipation of his boss making some sort of move. Making good on his threat to ‘remember’ and take up the invitation. The final twist of the knife was the uncertainty around whether that invitation had even been necessary._

_He couldn’t rest properly, even curled under the rocks on the overheated shores of the fiery lake, where the other demons hardly came. He couldn’t cope with being alone with his thoughts, but there was no-one he could talk to. He couldn’t deal with even being in the company of demons who might know what he’d done, know what he’d said._

_He wandered Hell’s working floors at night, unable to retire to the rec-rooms or relax in the sticky heat of the drinking dens. He stopped eating - it wasn’t necessary and he couldn’t go to the bars without twitching at every sound, convinced they were all talking about him._

_If he heard a snort of laughter, or a whispered word behind his back, he assumed it was about him. He jumped at shadows, expecting an attack at any time. Eyed his peers suspiciously. Stopped sharing when he spotted a trap. They were no longer on the same side. There was no-one he could share with._

_His paranoia befuddled his brain making him careless. He’d wandered accidentally into the senior demons’ resting area one night. Was it possible he was trying to recreate his trip to Ligur’s room? The idea that he’d willing walk into that nightmare again made him cringe with humiliation. Had he enjoyed it so much?_

_He’d managed to escape unnoticed that time. The day's first hour-candle had been burned about halfway down. The human equivalent of 4am. Most demons were too busy looking after themselves at that hour to notice a stray intruder._

_Try as he might he couldn't see how Hastur was playing his game. He had his underling in his power, whenever he wanted him. Crowley had offered, his words couldn't be withdrawn. Those words haunted him. Why hadn't he been more circumspect, less graphic? Would it even have mattered? Why wasn't Hastur doing anything about it?_

_The senior demon didn’t give him any clues - on the surface nothing had changed. No special treatment. No special punishments. He seemed to be ignoring him in fact. He couldn’t ask him. It was like being in a demonic limbo - a Hell within a Hell - the consequences of his actions suspended indefinitely._

_His half-dazed state didn’t go unnoticed. If the demons sensed a weakness they’d always press the advantage. If you did something to make yourself stand out. If you looked away even for a second. Hell would be there to make you suffer._

_In retrospect it probably wasn’t coincidence that they’d waited until Hastur was away before springing the trap. If his colleagues had decided he was the boss's mistress, his willing whore, they wouldn’t risk doing anything while his patron was around to save him._

_It had been necessary for someone to take a hit. The quota of failure had to be met after all. His department had been doing well, too well. Hastur’s leadership seemed, perversely, to have helped them._

_For some unfathomable reason his boss didn’t seem to go out of his way to look for faults. Oh, he was happy to pounce when he found one, or it was bought to his attention, but he wasn’t setting the same sort of traps they’d had to deal with before. Mind you, their last boss had been destroyed by an angry mob of junior demons, so maybe Hastur’s tactic was more about self-preservation than anything else._

_Also, while the new boss’s targets were no less daunting, his tolerance of the methods employed to achieve them was greater. He turned a blind eye at stray miracles. He didn’t seem to mind if the odd bit of stationery went missing or the occasional demon disappeared for an hour or two to fulfil some promised favour._

_Hell was very big on favours. Favours were important. They were like currency. Quid pro quo. No-one would help their fellows unless they got something out of it. You had to offer something, nothing was for free, but favours made it almost fair in a twisted way._

_If you agreed to take a risk, break a rule, bear a punishment on behalf of another, they would owe you. The bigger the potential consequences the greater the favour. What favours were due for rescue from a treason charge? He owed his boss something, but what? He almost hoped it was just physical favours, it could be so much worse._

_The pit demons understood the system - it was possible to bribe your way out of torments, ‘commutation’ they called it. Offer something tempting enough and they might bite - or not bite, as it were._

_The Pits were big on ‘physical favours’ - the deformed denizens were so starved of affection they’d generally forego a torture session for an intimacy, however coerced. Hastur from the Pits, was that why he'd assumed he wanted sex? What if he was wrong? He tried to shut down this line of thinking and concentrate on the work. It was so difficult though._

_Crowley usually found a way to escape before he even got to the Pits. He had been an expert at manipulating favours to his advantage. He was sharp. He noticed things. If the forms changed, or the delivery schedules were mixed up, he was the one who pointed it out. As a result his fellows often owed him something. Never big things - he wasn’t brave enough to take really big risks - but enough small things to buy him a measure of safety._

_Now this had changed. He hadn’t talked to a colleague for far too long. He had watched carefully as his fellows had taken their turn in the Pits, dreading his own. Hastur would smile grimly and sigh deeply, as if he was disappointed, but his sneer of satisfaction as he shepherded them down to suffer at his hands, gave away the lie._

_Hastur loved torments, he basked in other’s pain. He wallowed in the smell of fear and panic like a poisonous toad half buried in cool, dark mud. His victims would return, broken and bleeding, limping for days as his cursed wounds healed so slowly. The office begrudgingly admitted he was ‘fair’ - as far as anything in Hell was fair, but he was no less feared for that._

_It wasn’t until Hastur was away though that Crowley had been called for his inevitable trip downstairs. Such a stupid error too. In hindsight he should have seen the trap, but he was overtired, jumpy and inattentive. He’d let his guard down enough to assume he could coast a little. He was wrong. His colleagues had taken their opportunity and his error had quickly been pointed out._

_Hastur’s stand-in was a long-term colleague of Crowley's, someone who had, until recently, owed him enough favours that he wasn’t a threat. He seemed so happy when he broke the news. Crowley had submitted the wrong docket and, more than that, on the wrong day too._

_No-one had told him of the error until it was too late to correct it. This was it, he’d been caught out. His colleague handed him his requisition order and sent him to the Pits. At least he’d been given the small mercy of escaping Hastur's hands._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Hastur was one of Hell’s better bosses to work for (unless you were Crowley). Although thoroughly enjoying the sadistic punishments he metes out, he wants his office to do well and doesn’t send his staff to the Pits without reason. He likes to believe he is ‘fair’, well ‘fair’ by Hell’s standards anyway.


	23. ‘A Nasty Piece Of Work’

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale gives a tentative view of Hastur while still trying not to have an opinion, and certainly not judge, it turns out this wasn’t a good place to take a break

It was getting late. Not that time mattered to supernatural entities who didn’t need to sleep, but Crowley had had so little sleep lately, so many nightmares, that he really was tired.

“Can we pick up again in the morning?” he asked hopefully, adding a fake yawn for good measure.

Aziraphale eyed him suspiciously and he felt the need to justify himself “I really am tired angel, it’s hard to talk about all this. It brings it back y’know?”

“Of course dear, I’m sorry, shall we pack up and get back to the shop?”

He was glad the angel had agreed, he really didn’t think he could carry on just yet. Then he thought about it. He wasn’t a prisoner, he didn’t have to do this. He was choosing to talk and could stop it at any time.

Perhaps he should just stop it. So far the angel hadn’t really told him what he thought about any of this. Was it turning him against him? Already? If the events so far had shocked him, made him see him in a different light, then what about the rest?

He asked hesitantly “has this changed anything? I mean, do you think… do you think… you asked why… I’ve always wanted to think I was forced into it by Hastur because he was evil and manipulative and knew exactly what he was doing, but I don’t know anymore - will you tell me what you think?”

The angel shook his head. “I haven’t the right to an opinion my dear. He certainly sounds like ‘a nasty piece of work’ as they say”.

The well known saying was pronounced so carefully, Aziraphale had never been keen on slang. The demon laughed. “Yeah, you can say that again!” he confirmed. He hadn’t expected the suggestion to be taken literally.

“He was a nasty piece of work, but as to motives or what he thought, well, I can’t tell you that. I’m here to listen, you’re the one who needs to decide, come to terms with whatever happened. I can’t solve it, or make it go away, you need to do that yourself”.

He stopped and looked meaningfully at the demon. Crowley looked sulky and unsure of himself. He obviously didn’t like the answer. It was painfully clear that what he wanted was someone to tell him that Hastur was evil and anything he did was ok because of that.

The angel wanted to say that too. The reassurance would be justified from what he’d been told already. Hastur had acted abominably. He had been sadistic, manipulative and worked to isolate Crowley, intermingling it with random acts of kindness. It was an abuser’s trick, make them dependant on you, desperate for approval, any crumb of kindness.

It was clear how well Hastur had managed to separate Crowley from his peers too. Even if there was no ‘friendship’ in Hell per se, Crowley had obviously had some sort of relationship with his colleagues before. Now he’d lost it. Paranoid and lonely and oh so vulnerable.

Hastur had managed to keep him in a state of uncertainty. Questioning his own actions. Unsure if he’d reacted correctly. Trying to guess at his boss’s motives. Leaving him dangling like that was simply cruel, surely Hastur knew Crowley's imagination would do the damage for him? Weaken his victim further.

However, as Crowley kept reminding him, this was Hell. From what he’d said all relationships were abusive. There was no ‘kindness’ or ‘understanding’ as a general rule. Showing any sort of consideration or concern seemed to considered virtually a crime. Perhaps his demon had a point that this was a close to ‘affection’ that a demon like Hastur could ever get. With no points of reference perhaps he had been trying, in a demonic way, to be ‘kind’ - albeit unsuccessfully.

No, psychologically speaking it was all wrong. Right from the beginning Hastur had been contriving situations. If he could get his underling off the treason charge why not tell him straight away? If he only wanted to be a confidant to his junior why stay afterwards until he provoked a reaction? After that intimate scene why sit back and ignore him? Hastur must have realised what the negative consequences of his actions would be.

Aziraphale sighed inwardly and tried hard not to have an opinion. He would certainly not vocalise his thoughts on Hastur’s actions. It was true what he’d said - he couldn’t resolve this for Crowley. The demon had to come to terms with the past himself.

A forensic examination of ‘what ifs’ and ‘maybes’ wasn’t going to help him do that either. You can’t solve the past like a jigsaw puzzle. No matter how long you look at the pieces of broken memories and shattered emotions they won’t fit together to make a whole. Accept the uncertainties, leave them behind, move on. Learn to live with the chaos and stop letting the past spoil the present. It was ‘Crowley now’ that mattered not ‘Hastur then’; and ‘Crowley now’ needed to find a way to define himself outside the character ‘Hastur then’ had tried to create.

The angel relented enough to offer some reassurance. “I will tell you that nothing in what you’ve told me has changed anything between us. You are still my very good friend and I’m still here for you. I think you’re doing so well. I couldn’t have done this well”. He smiled and Crowley gave a weak, half-smile, in return. Then they packed up for the day.

Back at the bookshop Crowley headed straight upstairs. Aziraphale fixed himself a drink and picked out a book. He heard the shower running and smiled. His demon had always been so proud of his appearance. He’d spend hours getting ready and then waive aside any compliment nonchalantly ‘what, this old thing? First thing I pulled out the draw’…. It made him chuckle.

He assumed Crowley had gone to sleep. Talking about highly personal things, distressing things, difficult things, was tiring. He deserved a break. What had he said? You don’t sleep in Hell. He found he liked the idea that his demon trusted him enough to fall asleep with him near by.

However, after only a few hours, he heard footsteps upstairs. They weren’t coming down, just pacing up and down, over and over. He frowned - should he go up and see what the matter was? After a while of the pacing he decided he ought to check it out.

Crowley had woken up in a panic. He expected to see Hell again, the dark office lit by its guttering hour-candles, the cells of the Pits, the glow from the fiery lake even. That he hadn’t, made him suspicious. Someone had moved him - transported him to another place. He wasn’t sure where; and he didn’t know who.

It took a few moments for him to remember he wasn’t in Hell and that the odd surroundings were actually the familiar bedroom at the bookshop. How had be forgotten that? He still couldn’t relax.

The story had broken off just before he’d got to the Pits and he felt like he was back there again, but suspended in time. Like he had been on his way to the Pits for his torment for hours, days. He wanted to continue - get it out of his system - but he couldn’t disturb the angel at this hour could he?

He wondered vaguely what time it was and looked about for the hour-candles - probably a quarter way through the first. Then he remembered he had a watch - no need for hour-candles - a beautiful watch that would work even in the highly unlikely event of him going deep-sea diving, it gave phases of the moon and lit up. He pressed the button and realised he had been about right - it was 2:15am.

He couldn’t demand to go back to the hotel at this hour could he? He was tired, he was meant to be resting. If he didn’t rest he’d get in trouble, demons should be properly rested for the start of their shift. He began pacing, worried that if he left the room he’d be spotted, sent down to the Pits for punishment.

The door opened and he jumped back in fear. He’d been found out! He let out a cry, then immediately stifled it. Don’t let them know you’re afraid.

The room was in darkness so the angel couldn’t see Crowley, but he heard his cry. He was concerned and lit the room with a Heavenly glow. The scream was cut off and there was no sign of the demon. He didn’t enter the room, instead standing in the doorway and asking cautiously “Crowley my dear, are you alright?”

Silence. Then a movement. The demon had managed to wedge himself on top of the wardrobe in fully snake form. Aziraphale looked at him and the snake hissed back at him, large fangs dripping with venom.

It only took a moment for Crowley to recollect where he was, what he was doing. Hell was a long way behind him and nothing there could touch him. Now all he had was the problem of how to get down from the wardrobe in as dignified manner as possible.

It turned out there was no dignified way to climb down from a wardrobe in half snake, half human form. He landed heavily and looked up at the angel apologetically.

“I don’t think that was a good place to stop angel. I need to get this bit out of my system”.

“Of course dear, that was the point of getting a room, we can go there any time”.

They headed back to the hotel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I have included a lot of speculation on motivations - what Crowley thought at the time, what Aziraphale thinks now, how you can interpret Hastur’s actions etc. In real life I find replaying old events, and letting speculations like this get out of hand, is a sure way into a downward spiral mentally speaking. I’ve tried to explain that in this chapter - hope it makes sense and doesn’t just seem like so much waffle.
> 
> *Crowley has a serious level of vanity going on, but does his best to pretend he doesn’t and maintains that his ‘look’ falls together naturally, without any effort on his part.
> 
> *Much closer to what I think of as a real ‘flashback’ here, rather than the coherent recollection of events I’ve used the term for so far. For me ‘flashbacks’ are more like single images, sounds/smells, emotion and confusion, but I couldn’t think of a better term to cover the ‘remembering’ sections of the story. I’m using it there in the narrative sense of the word rather than the symptomatic one.


End file.
